


The Distance Between First and Second

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Porn With Plot, secondary character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:06:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is happy. Really. He is happy for Louis. Happy for Harry. Happy for them. Happy for himself.</p><p>Until he's not.</p><p><b>Warnings:</b> angst, secondary character death (not the boys), boy on boy sexy times, cheating (if you squint at it the right way), the TINIEST mention of HET in the past sense (liam/danielle). Future!fic.</p><p><b>Disclaimer:</b> obvious fiction is fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> So this started as an idea from Sausage sending me Moments (because I didn't have it on my CD) and then it turned into this 10k thing and then when it went past 20k and there was no end in sight I stopped counting. Hugest of HUGE love to the other quarter of my OT4 - **Sausage/wordgasmic** for being the very best in Breakfast Food Best Friends that she is and stupid emails and pron filled idiot boy songs and to the amazing **fr333bird** for reading and making pretty even if I sort of tricked her into a pairing that she wasn't exactly prepared for xoxox AND as always to my amazing beta **Mamacita** \- because no matter what fandom, no matter WHAT pairing I can send her stuff to make pretty and she just GETS it every time. Even if she does rub her trip to Maui in my face with every update email :/

**[part one]**

If you ask Louis, it was definitely he who saw Harry first. If you ask Liam, he'll tell you the same, only that it was himself, not Lou, who noticed the curly-haired wonder that is Harry Styles. They fought about it in the beginning—well, it wasn't fighting really, more banter with an edge. Harry would laugh and smile and he'd lean into whoever he was closest to and nuzzle at their neck or play with the fingers on whoever's hand he was holding.

It just happened, more often than not, that the person he was closest to was Louis. And it broke Liam's heart piece by piece with every single one of those moments.

In the end it didn't matter who saw Harry backstage or who caught sight of his wild curls outside the studio or who met who at the urinals, because in the end it was Harry's choice.

And he didn't choose Liam.

Really, that was the only thing that mattered. Not first looks or first touches, not awkward conversations or handshakes sticky from nerves. It wasn't the first blinding smiles or catching eyes so green you felt they couldn't possibly be real. No, in the end it's Louis who Harry wraps himself around, Louis who Harry kisses goodnight and then takes to bed. It isn't Liam. Isn't ever going to be Liam.

But it doesn't stop Liam from wanting it all the same.

He thinks he does a good job of hiding it. He goes out, dances with anyone and everyone, and even finds a girl he likes enough to date. He doesn't think about how seeing Harry hold Lou's hand in the minibus to and from concerts makes him feel. He doesn't let his thoughts linger on what the noises coming from their room, that verge on pornographic, mean. He is blissfully ignorant of how fucking happy Harry and Lou are. He doesn't notice any of these things. Doesn't let them affect him in the least.

If he kisses Danielle harder, it means nothing more than he's happy to see her. If he fucks her a little louder, encourages her to scream when he pounds into her from behind because he just can't look at her face, that doesn't mean a thing. He definitely doesn't notice how she's begun automatically getting up to shower after they get together, and the sound of sobs certainly isn't filtering over the noise of the water, either. He pretends not to understand the why of it when she breaks it off after a year of slowly declining dates and more emotionless sex, playing completely aloof to her "I won't do this for you any more, Liam. I can't be with someone who isn't even trying to be here with me."

He hasn't been with anyone properly since.

He is happy. Really. He is happy for Louis. Happy for Harry. Happy for them. Happy  
for himself.

Until he's not.

"So, I think Lou is gonna ask me to marry him," Harry says as they sit out on some balcony of some hotel in a country that has gorgeous sunsets over blue, blue water, but for the life of him, Liam hasn't a clue exactly where it is they are.

He does, however, recognise the tapping of fingertips on the table that signify Harry's nerves kicking in. He does notice how his heart virtually stops beating altogether only to jump into overdrive within the next breath.

"I mean, it's not something we've talked about. Well, not really; maybe, I suppose, in some ways we have, because you can't really be together for eight years without it coming up, right?" And Liam doesn't need to look at Harry to know how his brow will be creased, his hand threading through those curls Liam dreams about brushing off Harry's face himself.

"It's not that I haven't thought about it, either. I mean, he loves me. Management probably won't have an issue with it because, fuck, our coming out proved fruitful on all ends. They'll blow a fucking load over organising a wedding. Ugh, they'd probably want to sell tickets." Harry sighs, and out of the corner of Liam's eye he can see Harry lean his elbows on the table, his face buried in the palms of his hands as his fingers disappear into chocolatey waves.

"He was looking at rings the other day online. I flipped open his laptop to check my mail because his was right there and mine was still packed, and it was on the screen. Fucking rings, mate. I don't know. I don't know." The sigh is more of a groan this time as Harry's arms clatter onto the tabletop followed by the distinct sound of his forehead tapping against the glass top over and over again. "What am I going to do, Li? What do I do with this?" he whispers.

Liam swallows, concentrates on keeping his eyeline on the stretch of ocean in front of them and the golden orb of the sun slowly sinking down into the horizon.

"Liam? I'm pouring my heart out here," Harry says, and it only takes Harry saying Liam's name in that way for him to turn and finally take Harry in. Harry's tilted his head to the side now, curls ruffling in the light breeze and eyes so fucking full of emotion it nearly takes Liam's breath away.

Well, it might do if Liam had been doing anything but holding it since Harry had started talking, virtually spilling his secrets to Liam as if he were a fucking priest or something.

Harry raises his head enough to press a cheek against his forearm. His lips are red and bitten—and for once Liam doesn't imagine it's from an overzealous Louis because he knows Harry's ticks, knows that his lips being that shade and that chapped means he's been chewing at them in deep thought. Harry has been turning something over in his mind, mulling over possibilities and problems as they arise. It's how he usually looks when he comes to Liam for answers. Answers that, this time, Liam isn't sure he is the right person to give.

Harry raises a brow and kicks his leg out, hitting Liam's chair with a metallic clank. "Come on, Li, I need help here."

"I don't know what you want me to say," Liam finally spits out, the words heavy on his tongue and his voice raspy.

Harry stares at Liam and Liam swallows hard under the intensity of his gaze. "What do you think about it?" Harry asks, still looking at Liam as if he has two heads and not just one that is currently on vacation because Harry has said Lou wants to marry him. Marry Harry. The Harry Liam's never had, and never would have by the sounds of it.

Liam swallows again, wishing he hadn't earlier tipped out the last dregs of the one beer he'd allowed himself into the pot plant when he realised drinking really wasn't helping with how lonely he felt. He's been feeling more and more like this lately, pulling away from the lads and finding some place quiet to just be. It's also getting harder to pull off the _'I'm fine, really. Just need some space'_ routine the closer they get to the end of the tour. It's always Harry who asks where he is, always Harry who finds and drags Liam back into the fray with that smile of his that reaches right up into concerned green eyes. You can't say no to Harry and that smile; not many get away with saying no to Harry, with or without it. Charming bugger he is.

"I think it's not important what I think," Liam answers, and Harry groans, smacking his head against the table once more. Liam is glad of the break from Harry's scrutinising gaze and uses the time offered to take in the fact that Harry is half-clothed as usual, his shorts still slightly damp from a dip in the pool or maybe the surf earlier. They stick to his thighs and hips, and if Liam were really looking and the table wasn't in the road, he is sure the dark trail of hair that meanders its way down Harry's belly and lower still will probably be wet and curling against golden skin. But he isn't looking, especially not as Harry turns and gives Liam an even clearer view, sliding his chair around beside Liam's.

Harry lifts Liam's hand where he's been gripping the edge of the seat and wraps it around his shoulder, nuzzling in against Liam's chest, and Liam wills his fast-beating heart to slow down, if just for a minute. Harry's fingers intertwine with his as he tugs Liam's arm around him, and Liam lets his body relax. Being like this with Harry isn't anything different than the norm: the touching, the closeness they all have with each other is just as strong as it has been from the beginning.

"It matters, Li," Harry says after a few quiet minutes have passed between them. Harry is still holding his hand, if anything a little tighter than before, and it's second nature really when Liam turns his head so his lips press into Harry's curls. It isn't weird when he breathes in a little deeper, inhaling the drying salt and ocean scent that lingers there and the complementary hotel shampoo that's nearly a memory underneath. It's still Harry, though. Harry who's come to him with his concerns—like he always does. Harry who's sitting beside him, virtually in his lap, cuddling up to Liam's side as if he belongs there. It reminds Liam of all the other times they've been like this, just the two of them. Quiet moments that slowly disappeared the closer Harry became with Louis, near drying up completely once they came out to the fans. The cuddling, the times spent with just Harry and Liam have started occurring more and more of late. Not that Liam is paying too close attention to any of this, not to Harry who constantly seems to have been seeking him out over the past few months. How he clings to Liam a little bit more when Louis isn't around or in interviews when he's tired and relies on Liam to say the right things—just like Liam always has.

It means nothing. It's just Harry being Harry. That's all.

He feels Harry release a long breath, his whole body shifting with it then pressing closer still to Liam as if the tiny metal arms between them aren't there at all. "You matter to me, Liam. You always have."

Liam can't think of anything to say to that, not anything that would get past the lump in his throat and the ache in his chest of words unsaid and opportunities long lost. Moments that could have changed everything if Liam had spoken of everything he kept hidden from Harry, from himself. If Liam had acknowledged what he felt from the start, instead of burying it until it was too late to do anything at all.

His silence seems enough, though, or maybe it's the fact that Liam is just _there_ and holding Harry in his arms, warmed by the setting sun. Maybe just being together without saying anything is all Harry needs. It is what Liam does best, after all.

:::

They sit together that night out on the balcony long after the sun has gone down. The others are off somewhere, not that Liam pays much mind to anything but who's in his arms as the full moon comes up, lighting the shore and them with its startling white, making everything look ethereal. Feel magical. Harry lifted his head at one point, catching Liam's gaze where he'd been staring down at Harry for a lot longer than he probably should have. There is this moment—a few seconds really—but it seems to drag on forever as Harry looks back at Liam and there is—there is something like understanding in his stare. It could just be Liam's imagination—it's been getting away from him what with Harry so close and Louis so far from his thoughts and them together, alone in Li's room. It might not be, but if there ever was a moment, then it's this one. It's Harry tilting his head up, and Liam letting his own drop down, and it's the quickest flicker of Harry's eyes to Liam's lips, which Liam can't help but lick, and then Harry's mouth opens and, and. . . .

And there is a loud rapping on the door, Niall calling out for Liam to be ready for dinner in an hour, and whatever it was is gone. If it was there at all. Harry twists himself out of Liam's arms, ruffling Liam's hair before taking off with a "Better be off, then," and that's the end of it.

Nothing more is said about what Harry has found or what Louis might be going to ask Harry or what Liam thinks about it all. Nothing else has changed between them. They still do breakfasts and interviews, sound checks and lunches, dinners with the others, and sometimes Liam has his in his room alone. The concerts are great, the audiences amazing, and everyone is happy. Management are happy. The lads are happy. And Liam pastes the smile on his face that he's worn for so long now he isn't sure what a real smile feels like any more at all.

Liam starts spending even more time alone; this news of Harry's weighs heavily on his mind and heart. Somehow he manages to convince the lads that he's writing new material, needing space for his thoughts. It isn't too much of a stretch; he's done it with a few of the previous albums, but never really while they were on tour.

Zayn notices.

It's late one Sunday, a rare afternoon off that they've spent with a few of the crew around the hotel's pool, drinking and messing around. Liam's been slowly shifting away from the group, making less and less conversation until he's finally on the outer edge, hoping he's far enough away from prying eyes and people that may want to call him back. He's about to clear the last of their circle of chairs when Harry grabs at Liam's wrist. "Where are you off to, Li?"

Liam gives some excuse, headache or something about words he needs to get out of his head in the quiet, and Harry responds by pressing his thumb that much harder into Liam's skin, his face a frown complete with a pout that Liam _aches_ to kiss away. Harry nods eventually, his fingertips running up Liam's arm to his elbow, tugging him down to Harry's level where he sits on Lou's lap. Louis doesn't notice a thing—too deep in conversation with one of the roadies about bands he's worked with before, stories that have Lou in fits of laughter and eyes wide with "Really? No, really?"

Liam leans in and Harry's words are a warm breath over his skin. "You know what they say about all work and no play, mate." Liam nods, hoping anyone looking will think the rosy flush on his cheeks is just left over from how cheery he's become from all the sun he'd soaked up earlier in the day.

It doesn't help when Harry kisses his cheek before letting Liam go, a chaste kiss but a kiss nonetheless, making it necessary for Liam to adjust his pants as discreetly as possible while making his way back into the hotel. He's leaning his head against the cool metal outside the elevator doors when Zayn finds him.

"What are you doing, Li?"

Liam doesn't answer, just stands looking at the doors, willing them to open. Zayn doesn't leave, but Liam hears him take a breath like he's going to say something when a loud ding announces the elevator's arrival. Zayn follows him in when the doors open, rounding on Liam as soon as they close.

"You know Lou is going to ask Harry to marry him, right?"

Liam shrugs, leaning in to press the button for his floor only to have Zayn knock his hand out of the road. "Don't do this to yourself, mate. You had your chance years ago and you did nothing about it. Don't fuck this up now."

Liam doesn't say a word. Doesn't turn to see what will be pity in his friend's knowing gaze. He hears Zayn sigh again, then the doors open and Zayn is gone.

Zayn knows more than most.

But not everything.

Not the things that still wake Liam up at night, or have him watching Louis with a keen eye on the odd occasion.

Zayn was the one to pull Liam to the side when it all ended badly with Danielle and Louis was still _something_ with Eleanor, ignoring whatever it was that _he_ was doing to tear Harry apart. Zayn had got Liam out of the epic funk he'd allowed himself to wallow in when the Danielle thing had gone pear-shaped, was there to listen even though Liam never talked.

It was late one night during one of their two-week breaks at home when Liam found Zayn sitting on the end of his bed. The arguing in Harry and Lou's apartment was reaching new heights (it had been a back and forth of what verged on sickly sweet to snippy and silent for the last half of their tour) as Liam sat up and Zayn tilted his head toward the sound. Tonight was the latter kind rather than the former, and if the sound of crockery breaking was anything to go by, emotions had reached the boiling point. Liam had tried tuning it out earlier, but now with Zayn whispering his name (Christ knows why, it wasn't as if the boys could hear them two doors down) it was a bit hard not to listen. Just as he was going to tell Zayn to bugger off, silence fell only to be followed by doors slamming and a very loud "Fuck you, Styles!" echoing down the hall. Then Zayn was jerking the covers off Liam's bed, leaving him whining in just his pyjama bottoms before a shirt was thrown at him with the order to "Go and fucking talk to him before this gets too far."

Liam hadn't put up much of an argument before getting up and pulling on the clothes Zayn had so hastily thrown at him. It was part of the norm for him to be the one soothing all of Harry's hurts, Daddy Direction and all that. He didn't even knock when he walked into their flat, the door was open anyway, and the silence was so strange he didn't want to add something as intrusive as announcing his presence. The sound of his bare feet slapping over the tiled floor did that enough. He found Harry in the kitchen, sitting up on the island bench, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, his dark curls a knotted mess covering the rest of his face. Liam stopped a few feet away when he felt something sharp pierce his foot.

"I think that was part of Eleanor's favourite mug," Harry said, his voice lilting up at the end a fraction, as if by force of will to keep his tone light.

Liam scraped the butter-yellow china from the heel of his foot. "Harry," he began, only to stop as he lifted his head and took in the red rims of Harry's eyes that made the green shine, the tears still fresh on his cheeks, and the way his hands were shaking even as Harry gripped so hard at his knees that his knuckles were white.

Liam opened his mouth to start again, sweeping his feet from side to side to step closer, almost instinctively needing to get to Harry. To wrap him up and make him whole the only way Liam knew how. Harry's lip was torn at the side and there was a slight bubble of red in the well of missing flesh there. Liam's eyes must have widened because then Harry was telling him "Don't," in a voice so low and soft it was barely audible. Liam shook his head because this . . . was _this_ what he thought it was? It couldn't be because then . . . his stomach dropped and all the things he was going to say to Harry suddenly disappeared, completely burnt away by the overwhelming urge to check that Harry was all right. Liam really needed to be in front of Harry to do that, and his feet carried him there as soon as the thought formed. He slipped easily between Harry's thighs. His hand reached up to cup Harry's jaw and Harry winced as he did so, tipping his head back down.

Liam felt sick; he felt as if every nerve in his hand was suddenly aware of how warm Harry was, of exactly where they were connected, and Liam loosened his grip. Harry was staring down at the space between them as Liam's fingers held Harry's chin, tipping his head to the side and breathing in quick because there was swelling on Harry's cheek and it was red, and as his fingertips traced the mark it was hot under his touch. "It's not—" Harry said, and he tipped his head back but Liam didn't let go, only leaned in and pressed his lips to the reddest part of Harry's cheekbone. Then again, at a line that was so defined it was definitely a finger at the corner of Harry's eye, he could taste the salt on Harry's lashes. Then again and again until he'd covered every inch of raised skin. It was only as he pulled back and blinked, thumb brushing softly across Harry's jaw, that he realised just what he'd done.

Liam froze. He had no idea what to say or where to look. This was going to fuck everything up, he was sure of it. He could see Harry's bare chest rise and fall. There were more red marks on golden skin in thin stripes that had ragged edges. Just what the fuck had gone on in here while he'd been pretending to sleep away his heartache?

All he could hear was an escalating whooshing sound in his ears as he stared at marks that didn't look like they were from passion. No, these were to hurt, and Liam had no idea how to handle that. Harry's hand found where Liam's sat on the bench beside him, the only thing that was holding him upright at that moment. Harry's fingers tugged at his wrist, lifting Liam's hand to the deepest marks on Harry's chest. Liam's mouth dropped open, his breathing harsh and then catching in his throat on all the words he wanted to say as he finally raised his head and gazed into Harry's eyes. "Liam." Harry's voice broke Liam's name in two and then there was nothing for a moment, just the ticking of a clock and the low hum of the refrigerator and the _plink plink plink_ of the tap behind them that hadn't been properly turned off.

Two breaths. It took two breaths for everything to change between them. For green eyes to soften and a berry-red tongue to flick softly over bruised lips, and then Liam's fingers were sliding up Harry's jaw and cupping his face. Harry's hair was so soft and his lips even softer as they met Liam's in the briefest of touches—once, then twice more. Liam could taste the bitter tang of blood and milky tea and something else that was just Harry. There was no thinking involved as Harry guided their joined hands down his chest and to the curve of his hip. There were no words spoken as Liam felt Harry's heels dig into the back of his thighs, pulling him in closer until his knees hit the cupboard doors. Harry tilted his head slightly, then it was his tongue invading Liam's mouth, Liam moaning around it, and Harry's hand grabbing at Liam's arse, then tugging at his shirt, cool air meeting Liam's rapidly heating skin.

Harry's lips finally broke from Liam's, nipping at his chin and then pushing at Liam's neck until he tilted to the side, giving Harry even more room to explore. It was wrong, it wasn't anywhere near being good for either of them, but Liam didn't have time to think about that now because Harry was tugging at the drawstring on Liam's pyjama bottoms and then his hand was sliding in and around and it felt amazing when he _squeezed_.

Liam's hips thrust forward and he couldn't be sure, but Harry may have smothered a chuckle on Liam's collarbone.

"Harry," he managed to squeak out as Harry's thumb rounded the tip of his cock, the edge of his fingernail skating across Liam's slit in a way that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

"Don't," Harry mouthed over the clothed peak of Liam's nipple, the material there wet and sticking to Liam's skin from Harry's actions. "Please, Li, I need—" and Liam was groaning into Harry's shoulder as Harry pulled Liam's hand from its grip on Harry's arse and down between them to the obvious bulge in Harry's shorts. "Just, _please_."

Liam nodded, nodded because it was all he could do right then with his own dick out, hard, and precome providing a sticky stain on his shirt. He nodded because his hand was gripping Harry and Harry was hard, too. Then Liam's shirt was being dragged up his back and off and Harry could meet Liam's lips in a rough kiss that had Liam tasting Harry's blood in his mouth again. Then Harry pushed Liam's pants down to his knees, whispering something about "Off, off," as Liam realised he meant the last layer of clothing that lay between them. Liam's fingertips toyed with the elastic band at Harry's waist, only to be stilled when Harry's hand left the back of Liam's head where he'd been directing their kiss to come back with scissors in hand. "Cut the fucking things off!"

Liam would have laughed—maybe he did—but Harry was shaking and holding the scissors at quite a dangerous angle near his belly button, and Liam couldn't have that. One slip and he'd either snip at Liam's stomach, or worse yet, manage to cut off his dick, and that was just _not_ going to be an option. Liam took the scissors from Harry's hands and pressed his lips to Harry's once more before pulling out the material on one side of Harry's thigh and slicing through it with efficient strokes before doing the same to the other leg. The material clung to Harry's skin until Liam dropped the scissors noisily to the floor and pulled the remaining fabric off, Harry's arse meeting the shiny bench top with a squeak. They did laugh then, Harry grabbing at Liam's hand and squeezing, their eyes meeting properly for the first time really since whatever this was had started, and Liam could see the need there. Harry's pupils were dilated to a ridiculous size but the cut on his lip had torn further, their snogging not as delicate as it should have been, and Liam felt himself slow because this was _Harry_ , and he was hurt, and what the fuck were they doing?

Harry's curls shook wildly from side to side, "No, don't," he said, answering some question unasked but obvious, from the way Liam was looking at him maybe. Then the light came back into Harry's eyes and he was guiding Liam's hand to his mouth, two fingers sliding past those same bruised lips that had stopped Liam seconds before but now had him gripping Harry's thigh as he took them in deep, tongue swirling between his knuckles and all around until spit was dripping down into Liam's palm. Harry kept his eyes on Liam's as he shifted his knees wider, leaning back to create space between them as he brought their hands down and then past Harry's dick and _fuck_. Fuck.

With no hesitation, just Harry's dark lashes fluttering closed, Liam pushed and pressed and then it was a whole new heat surrounding Liam's fingers.

Liam was overwhelmed. He could only watch and breathe as Harry relaxed his grip on Liam's wrist only to wrap around the base of his shaft. Harry's breath stuttered as he squeezed on the first upstroke so hard he nearly pinched Liam's foreskin at the tip. A pearl of liquid beaded there only to slide down his fingers. Fuck, he was all shiny and wet and Liam's fingertips flexed and _pressed_ into Harry's hip. Harry moaned and Liam made what could possibly have been a squeak in response.

"Move, Liam, please."

Liam blinked and realised where exactly his fingers were, and obviously he _should_ be doing something. It wasn't like he hadn't done this before, a one-off with a mate once—but this was Harry. Harry, who he felt more for than a quick shag to get rid of the tension when they'd been just watching porn and not touching but then they were. This was different. This was Harry nearly begging him and Liam wanting it, wanting it so badly he was willing to forget the reasons he'd come into this flat in the first place and just pretend.

Liam shifted his fingers in and out and Harry stroked himself, tight noises in his throat playing like a melody to Liam's harsh breaths. Liam gripped Harry's hipbone like a fucking lifeline because he didn't know what else to do with Harry rocking into his touch as much as he could and then nearly begging Liam to add another finger. Liam did and Harry was just so _tight_ and hot and Christ, what would it feel like if it was, if Harry wanted . . . because that was where it was leading to, wasn't it? Liam fucking Harry? Liam's own cock was pressed up against the edge of the bench, trapped half in his pants, the head sticky against his stomach as Harry eventually sat up further, leaning on his elbows.

"Top drawer, at the back." Harry said, running his tongue along his bottom lip only to wince when he met broken skin. Liam stuttered, his hand stilling again at Harry's orders.

"C'mon, Li. I want this, need this. There's a box." He was looking up at Liam with those bloody green eyes of his hooded with want and his dimples begging Liam to lick and explore with his tongue.

Liam pulled open the drawer beside them, fingertips searching for what Harry wanted, completely disregarding the reason _why_ there would be anything in a box in the top drawer. Certainly when he brought it out, tipping it upside down for a flurry of lube and a few condoms to come raining out on the counter, he wasn't wondering why there were only three of the latter left, either. Those thoughts would lead somewhere Liam wasn't prepared to go, not now as Harry sat up and squeezed Liam's cock roughly before sliding the latex down quickly. Not now, as he watched Harry tear open the lube pack with his teeth.

Harry's eyes slid closed with the sound of skin on skin and then Harry's hand was back on Liam's cock, albeit a lot slicker this time than before. Liam nearly bit his own lip open with the feel of Harry's hand sliding in quick strokes over his cock, which until now had basically been ignored while Liam opened Harry up. Harry smiled a little, reaching up with his free hand to cup the back of Liam's neck and pulling him down so their lips could meet in a filthy kiss that was mostly tongue. Liam was paying so much attention to Harry—the heat of Harry's fingertips on his skin, Harry's lips and tongue and how much Liam needed this, this with Harry for whatever it was because it felt so fucking _good—_ that he only noticed what Harry was doing when it was nearly done.

"Oh god," Harry choked out, the tip of his nose brushing against Liam's cheek as he pressed the blunt head of Liam's cock into the place where only seconds before his fingers had been. This was it; this was well past the point of no return. Harry lifted his knees up and hooked them over the bend in Liam's elbows, Liam's fingers attempted to dig into the wooden counter where he had his palms flat on either side of Harry. Liam's cock slipped even further into tight heat; any other thoughts of what all of this meant disappeared completely at just how _fucking brilliant_ this felt. Liam lifted his hands from the counter, gripping at the indent where Harry's hips curved into his waist because he needed to _touch_ Harry more, needed to remember everything about this moment. The movement shifted Harry's legs into a better fucking position, his arse nearly flush with where Liam was pressing in, and with a growl from Harry, his hand squeezing around Liam's wrist, Liam finally _moved_.

He could only whisper Harry's name as Harry's hand met his shoulder, squeezing hard, and then it was Harry saying _please_ and Liam gave in. Every thrust was tempered with the sounds Harry was making and the burn on his skin that Harry's touch left behind. Liam just fucked in and _in_ and it had been so long, _so_ long since he'd done this, or been this close to anyone apart from Danielle—but this was different. This was Harry he was inside of. This was Harry making filthy wet slapping sounds as he tugged at his own prick. This was Liam leaning in close, his tongue gliding over Harry's pebbled skin, nipples hard and Harry arching into each touch with a moan. This was Harry's fingers pressing deep into Liam's shoulders, blunt nails scratching down his sides, thumbs pushing against his hip bones. This was lips tasting everywhere and hands memorising and moulding to flesh that they'd touched before, but never like this.

Too soon, Liam felt like his legs weren't going to hold him up much longer and his body was singing with how good it all felt. It hadn't been long, but he was embarrassingly close. His fingers slid over Harry's sweat-slick skin, nails scratching through fine dark hair and down to join Harry's, and then he was holdingHarry's prick _._ Holding and stroking and it felt similar and different all at the same time, Harry rocking up into his touch and whispering his name. It was too much, too much.

Liam grunted out, "Can't, won't last," and Harry just bent his body nearly in two to shakily whisper against Liam's neck, "Don't care."

Time sped up, slowed down, and before Liam knew it, he was there and his hips snapped as everything tensed and then released in jerky spasms. Harry's body was so tight around him as he shuddered, his forehead pressed hard against Harry's. Then it was Harry whose rhythm was off, his hand jerking at his dick as he came. Liam could feel more than see it as it landed in hot lines, marking his stomach as well as Harry's. As Harry shuddered, almost pulling the last of his orgasm out, his lips found Liam's again in a kiss that was basically them breathing with lips skating the edges of each other's mouths again and again.

"Harry," Liam said after a few minutes had passed and he could feel his toes again. Harry's eyes had slid closed at some time, and as much as Liam didn't want to spoil this moment, he had to talk. Well, more than words that were just variations of _"like that, yeah"_ or _"harder."_

But Harry was shaking his head and pushing at Liam's chest, unwrapping himself from Liam's body as Liam held his cock and pulled out. Liam heard Harry slide down to the floor as he slipped the condom off, knotting it and headed on shaky legs to toss it in the bin under the sink. When he turned back, it was to see Harry walking out and around the corner to the bathroom, throwing a "Be back in a 'mo" in Liam's direction. It turned all the good coursing through Liam's body into something cold, but as he rearranged himself into his pants and carefully trod out to the living room and sat on the sofa to await Harry's return, he tried not to dwell on it. Of course Harry would want to clean up; he was the one with most of the come on him, after all. Liam only had to wipe the little left on his own stomach off with his shirt, which he found on the floor. He settled into the sofa, his fingertips idly playing with a loose thread on one of the cushions, and closed his eyes as he listened to the shower turn on and wracked his mind for things to say. What needed to be said.

It was only when he woke up with a stiff neck from sleeping sitting up the next morning that he realised Harry hadn't come back. The sour feeling in his mouth from it being open all night fled to his stomach the moment he figured out just whose voices he could hear coming from the bedroom down the hall—quiet, as if whispering had been an option but they'd both decided to ignore the half-naked, passed-out bandmate on their sofa.

The "I'm so sorry, baby," and the "don't call me that, you call _her_ that," was followed by "not any more, just you," and "promise?" and "promise," and "promise" until promise was the only word Liam could hear any more as he got up and walked back out a door he never should have entered.

When Liam woke up the second time that morning, it was to Louis being all bouncy and Harry not meeting his eyes as they announced they were going to management and _telling_ them they were coming out. No more lies, no more secrets, and no more Eleanor.

Harry had made his choice and Liam had lived with it, neither of them speaking about that night in the years that followed. But it was always there, always in the back of Liam's mind that he _should_ have followed Harry. Should have sat Harry down and admitted that he wanted more, that he didn't want to be a fucking _point_ for Harry to make, that it wasn't just Louis who could fuck other people without it meaning anything. He should have told Harry how he felt and then Louis could have had Eleanor or someone else and the band would have been fine, and Liam would have had Harry and been happy, not watched Harry be happy with someone who wasn't him.

And now Harry was probably going to marry someone else.

Just when had Liam's life become this fucked up?

He thinks he hears the others coming back to their rooms as he switches off the lone lamp he has on. They may not share any more, but they still are all on the same floor, which is why it's a surprise to hear three loud knocks on his door a little after four in the morning. Liam gets up, groggily reaching for his jeans thrown somewhere on the carpet, and struggles to the door. His current state of awareness makes it take much longer than it should to take off the chain he'd clipped on and open the bloody thing. Of all the people he is expecting to see on the other side, it isn't Paul.

"Tour's on hold. Harry's mum's been in an accident and he's on a flight home."


	2. part two

**[part two]**

The mood is subdued the next day between them—they usually do their own thing on a free day before the next leg of a tour but not today. Today they end up in Louis and Harry's room, which feels strangely vacant without his presence. They lie around on the sofas or floor, always in contact with at least one person or another. There's this air of anticipation in the room, like they're waiting on Harry to walk in through the door, or to burst out of the kitchen, bowl of cereal in hand, a smirk on his lips. Or for a recently showered Harry to casually strut out of the bathroom wearing nothing at all, which is never unusual when visiting their room.

But he doesn't and it's strange, and even Liam, who has pulled himself away from the group dynamic over the past few months (years, if he's honest), feels the need to just _be_ with them all right now. Louis is checking his phone so often it has almost become as natural as breathing for him to walk to the window, look down at his phone, sigh, and come back to the lounge. He's sat with Niall most of the day, alternating with Zayn a little and even a few times with Liam, but they've not been _touchyfeelyclose_ for a long time now—not that Liam's ever stopped to think on the why of that.

He's never wondered if it's because Louis knows more than he's ever let on, or if it's because normally Harry is either glued to Lou or stuck to Liam's side. Liam's never thought about the possibility of Harry telling Lou what happened _that_ night. Neither Harry nor Lou were anything with a label back then, just casual fucks who were in a band together—or that's what they tried selling to the boys at the time. Is Lou aware that Liam knows his and Harry's verbal sparring turned into the physical kind instead when Harry hit too close to the truth about Lou just wanting to get laid, fuck the consequences and all those he left behind? But Liam never focuses on those questions, because the answers could mean the end of a lot of things, and in a lot of ways Liam is glad to _not_ think on them.

They're supposed to have a show the next night in a sold-out venue in San Diego or San Francisco—Liam hasn't been paying much attention to where they are, only that they're still in America for another two weeks before they can finally head home. They've all been looking forward to the time off; this latest world tour has lasted a good year and half after they released their fifth album and, as predicted, it rocketed up the charts like the previous four. They are all still used to living in close quarters, but there's an anxiousness to return to their own lives outside the band. Liam especially craves his time apart. It's not that he doesn't love the boys, they're really like brothers more than anything, but he _needs_ his space.

Not now, though.

It's quiet but not too much so; the TV is on and playing some daytime soap on a low level. Zayn and Niall are still pretending to play a card game they invented rules to years ago, but most of the time they're looking out the window, or like Liam, following Louis with their eyes. Liam has a book on his lap and he continues to read the same sentence every time he remembers that he did bring the thing as a form of distraction. It's getting to the point now where Harry should at least have landed and arrived home, and as much as the boys are friends with Harry's family—they attended Gemma's wedding and Liam sang her down the aisle last spring—none of them want to overstep the bounds here. They all understand what this news means. Harry and his mum are awfully close and this . . . this will crush him.

All they know is that Harry's mum was out getting groceries and was side-swiped by another car, and Anne ended up in hospital. Now for Gemma to call Harry it had to be serious, so there's definitely more to it, but as time wears on and they hear nothing, all sorts of things start playing in their minds and Liam can't help but fear the worst. Harry would have called by now if it was a matter of just a hospital stay, maybe a broken leg that she couldn't get around on and that Harry could organise home help for. Harry would have rung already just to bloody check in if it wasn't bad, and the longer it's taking, the worse Liam feels.

"He should have rung by now," Louis says to the window, his forehead resting against the pane and his whole body sagging, the usual twitchy excitement about everything completely missing from his form. Zayn nods, and Liam takes in the fact that Zayn hasn't even bothered to style his hair today. Neither had Liam, but most days he doesn't do much more than run his fingers through his close-cropped waves and it's done.

"Phones aren't allowed in the hospital. Maybe he's not been able to leave yet," Liam says, because it's the truth and it's the only part of this he knows could be true.

"Maybe Gemma overreacted. Maybe he's on a flight back right now because Anne's just stubbed her toe or something. She's always doing that," Niall says, officially giving up on any pretence of playing against Zayn by throwing his cards on the table.

None of them say anything after that. They know Harry wouldn't have gone if it was something little and Gemma wouldn't have called over nothing.

Silence eats up the room again. Niall moves to sit on the sofa beside Zayn as he flicks through the multitude of channels on offer on the TV with the remote. Zayn eventually slides down to rest his head in Niall's lap, his feet hanging over the arms of the sofa so his toes are just brushing against Liam's arm where he sits on the single seat to the side. Louis is still at the window, thumb sliding across his phone's screen in a move so predictable now, it's as if that's the way time now passes instead of watching the hands of the clock in the kitchenette shift agonizingly slowly.

It's just as Liam's managed to move down a line or two in his book that the sound of the phone ringing sends them all jumping. Niall moves to get up so fast he knocks Zayn to the floor, his feet somehow connecting with Liam's book, which goes flying across the room, and they're all standing and staring at Louis, waiting for him to speak.

It takes a second before Louis turns to them, almost looking through them all as he says, "It's not mine."

Then Liam realises they weren't _all_ looking at Louis, they were actually more focused on _him_ because it's _his_ phone that is ringing. He quickly fumbles for where he'd left it on the kitchen bench earlier, making sure to turn his texts on silent and send most calls to his message service except . . . .

Except for four numbers, and three of those people are here now, which means . . . .

"Harry?"

He doesn't mean to do it, but he can't stand the way their eyes feel on him as he holds the phone to his ear and waits for the echo to stop and Harry's voice to begin, so he turns and faces the wall. There's nothing but the sound of cars in the background and then a siren of some sort—so he's at the hospital—and then there's a great sob and Liam's heart drops to his shoes.

"Harry, mate, what's going on?" Liam tries to keep his tone light, caring as much as a friend should sound like he cares for another friend in this situation. It's bad enough that Harry's called him, not Louis, and he's not even going to waste a second wondering about that, why Harry does things like this—coming to Liam first all the time.

"Liam, my mum. My—my mum." Harry's voice is broken and Liam can hear the tears over the line and he knows before Harry says it. His own eyes are stinging as Harry gets out the words.

"Mum's gone, Li. My mum's gone." And then he really starts in on the gut-wrenching sobs and Liam wishes he weren't thousands of miles away because he literally aches with a need to wrap Harry in his arms and just _hold_ him through this. But he's not and he can only say sorry and sorry again and again until Harry settles enough to say that the funeral is on Friday, the post mortem won't take too long because, well, Harry's _Harry_. Not only that, they still have Simon, and Christ, that's enough of a name in itself if it weren't for theactions that Paul has delivered to them in the past when things were on a "need to know basis" (mostly concerning Zayn and a few fangirls, but that was a few years before.)

Harry's telling him about his stepdad handling all the arrangements, that Gemma is somehow holding it together, and when Liam asks about Harry, Harry answers, "I'm . . . I just fucking need you, I need you."

Liam hates the fact that hearing those words from Harry affect him more than they should, setting glow to that place in his heart that he's always had for Harry. A tiny kernel of warmth that he mostly ignores but now, with Harry saying he needs him over anyone else, well, that's something different.

"Of course, mate, I'll—we'll be there," Liam says, hoping the other three won't catch his mistake, and then the hurtful part of him hopes that at least one of them does. "We'll be on the next flight."

Harry sighs and the sound of the street comes back in again. There's a female voice in the background; Liam figures it must be Gemma. Soon enough, Harry's saying he's got to go and he'll text later.

It's only when Liam ends the call and turns around, letting out a shaky breath, that anyone says anything.

"So?" says Niall, who's looking bewildered, standing in the middle of the room while Zayn's sitting on the sofa again, head in his hands.

Louis is back at the window, his gaze fixed on the world outside.

"She's gone. The funeral's Friday next. He wants us—he wants us all there."

"He wants _you_ there," Louis says, not turning around, and Liam chews on his lip, looking back down at the floor because in a way, it's true. It's what Harry said, but it doesn't matter because Liam _knows_ he meant all of them. Still, it doesn't stop his stomach from twisting around or his throat from constricting at the semi-veiled accusation Lou has thrown out there. He could be judgemental and throw back something about why Louis _wasn't_ over there with Harry, why he'd actually listened when Harry had apparently said he'd be fine to go on his own.

There's no way Liam would have let Harry on that plane by himself if he'd known.

Not a chance in hell.

But this is Louis and Harry. Their relationship has never been one to make complete sense, even at the best of times. None of them have said anything about Harry going on his own—well, Liam and Niall had exchanged looks and Zayn had just glared at Liam when Niall had brought the subject up.

"All of us, Lou," Niall says. He's become quite the good peacekeeper of late, mostly because Liam is always retreating and Zayn is too hot and fiery when things get tight like the level of tension in the room is now.

Louis shakes his head and walks toward the bedroom without looking at any of them. The door closes gently behind him—an action that must have taken some sort of abnormal self-control on Lou's part considering how loud he's been known to get in the past when he's pissed off. It's when his voice rings out, muted through the wood, "He called you, not me," that Liam can see how this has really made Louis feel.

Liam looks back and Zayn is still staring at the floor and Niall is staring at Liam with so many questions in his eyes that Liam doesn't have the first clue how to answer. He feels like he should explain—even though he honestly has no way to do so, just to stop some of this awfulness that's existing between them all right now. How can he explain something he doesn't even know the answers to himself? Instead Liam says something about talking to management and heads out of the room, back to the safety of his own, already on the phone before he can let his mind wrestle with the repercussions of what just went on and why Harry had called him.

:::

They play the next concert as a foursome, taking turns singing Harry's parts just as they did when Zayn's aunt passed. Lou ends up getting the crowd to sing one particular song that they dedicate to Harry's mum, and the boys end the night in their usual huddle, minus one, with tears in their eyes. The fans are vocal about ending the tour early, on Twitter and every other social media network, after footage of the band all nearly crying on stage makes its way onto the internet—like nearly everything they do. There's a flood of support for them all, Harry (of course) and Lou in particular. Management relents, and the boys are flying home on the next available flight.

Liam has avoided Zayn and Niall's questions on the why of Harry calling him, and he and Louis have pretty much orbited each other like distant planets around the sunny glow of Harry for years now—never that close but never so far apart that people will comment. There's really nothing different between them except that without Harry around there's not much reason to talk even the little that they have done.

Zayn ends up sitting beside Liam on the plane. He does nothing but stare at Liam once it's obvious that Lou and Niall have passed out. He starts with a simple "You going to tell me 'bout it?" That one sentence pretty much ends Liam's feigned ignorance of exactly why Zayn is looking at him. Liam shrugs and says he has no idea, because he doesn't, not really. Zayn looks to be winding up for one of his rants about sticking one's nose in where it doesn't belong—and really, Liam's had enough of those from his mate for one lifetime. Louis shifts and whines about not being able to sleep beside Niall's snoring and wants to swap seats with Liam and that ends that line of questioning.

Liam goes because it's easier than arguing, and it's the first time since the phone call that Louis has actually directed any form of communication his way.

They arrive back in the UK with minimal interruptions. There are fans, of course, and questions from the usual media, but they avoid most of it and pile into a bus together and head out of the airport. Liam feigns sleep on the ride out but eventually dozes, having taken a seat in the back with Niall. They head straight to Harry and Lou's and arrive in near darkness. Lou opens the door, so obviously he's in for a hug first and then it's Niall and Zayn. Liam's last because he's bringing in the last little bits of luggage and also because he really wanted his own bed, not to share like they had when they were younger in one of the three rooms available in the house. Truth be told, he didn't want to come to the house just yet because of the reaction he can feel going on around him when Harry finally does end up in his arms. Liam can't help but hold him tight because Harry is _wrecked_ and it kills Liam to see him so. It's made even worse when Harry presses his face into Liam's neck and whispers Liam's name over and over until he's hiccoughing out his grief.

If Louis notices, he doesn't mention it. Liam eventually has to rip himself out of Harry's grasp. He shuffles them awkwardly down the hall and deposits Harry on the sofa before escaping to the kitchen under the guise of being the tea-lady for them all. He's left blissfully alone while he bangs around the cupboards in search of mugs and bits and bobs. By the time he returns, cuppas in hand, Louis has Harry ensconced in his arms and asleep. Louis' hands thread through Harry's curls in an almost protective manner, his body curled over Harry's form in a way that blatantly states _mine_ without words. They sit for a while, thinking maybe Harry will wake and want them near.

After an hour passes, then two, and the jet lag starts to set in, Liam begs off to shower and sleep a few seconds after Niall says he's going to. Liam heads up the stairs after Niall, all the while feeling Zayn's eyes burning into his back. It only feels safe to fucking _breathe_ once he has the spare room door closed, Niall having headed straight for the bathroom.

Thankfully, Liam is the last to wake the next morning—a rare occurrence, but with everything that's gone on in the past few days his body has to make up time somehow. They spend the day just being there for Harry, and Gemma when she pops over a little after lunch. It's nice to see Harry interact with his sister in something approaching normality—until one of them says something that reminds the other of their mum and then they're back to square one. It's awful watching Harry like this; his eyes are dull and even his hair seems to lack the bright and shiny feel that Harry always seems to exude. The only good thing about all of them being there is how attentive Louis is. Harry is _clinging_ to him, which Liam hopes will assuage all of what Louis thought he knew and what Zayn is still shooting him "We _will_ discuss this soon, yeah?" looks about.

The family has finalised nearly all the details on the funeral, so with Harry in Louis' care, Liam makes plans to head back to his own flat. Harry is sleeping again at the time Liam mentions it to Zayn; Louis and Niall are chatting to Gemma in the kitchen when Liam brings his things back down. Zayn agrees that it might be a good idea. His hand squeezes Liam's shoulder and his dark eyes are full of something that Liam hesitates to call pity. Liam has no idea how to take Zayn's words—they could be a warning or a voice of support for Liam's own fucked-up personal involvement in this—but he takes them anyway and heads for the hall.

Gemma finds him out in front loading his bags into a town car and pulls him into a tight hug, smelling of girl and Harry and even Lou. What with the three of them having been in constant touch throughout the day, it was bound to rub off.

She pulls back after the requisite back-pats on Liam's part and runs her fingers idly through the short fringe he has, cupping his cheek and sighing. "It's strange, isn't it?" she says, her eyes not quite meeting Liam's as the corner of her lip quirks up in a manner so like Harry's when he's confused that Liam can read it almost immediately.

"What is?" he asks, shoving his hands down into the pockets of his coat. A light rain has started to fall, sending the temperature down from the mild day they'd been having earlier.

Gemma's hand slips down to his shoulder before straightening out a curl in his lapel. "You're the first to go, and you're the first one he wanted to talk to."

Liam feels his face heat and he drops his eyes to the pavement below, cracks spreading wide under his feet. He wonders if maybe he's lucky and one of them will suddenly grow and he'll be able to fall in and away from the mess that's become his life at the moment.

But it doesn't, and there's still Gemma standing there, and he can feel her eyes on him. It's enough to make him stutter in reply, "He'll be fine. He's got you and Lou."

He can make out her smile as she tilts her chin, then her hand squeezes his shoulder. "But he wanted you." She leaves then and he gets into the car, frustrated as ever over the recent turn of events in his life.

As the car pulls away it's all Liam can do to not analyze his life. He thought he was in a good place—well, not a _good_ place because he was mostly just living in the shadow of what could have been, faced by the shining happiness that was Harry and Lou. He was in a band he loved, writing and playing music for people who genuinely liked what they had to offer, had friends and family who were understanding and supportive of the strangeness that surrounded him. He didn't have love, as such, but he'd had lovers—none more than once or twice because he wasn't going to get serious. Not when his heart belonged to someone who wasn't even aware that he owned it.

Liam felt it, though—the not-quite-right—the moment he opened the door to his flat, silent and still and smelling of that lemon polish stuff his cleaner used on nearly every surface. He turned off his phone, sat down on the sofa, and watched the night claim the city, plunging the room into darkness.

He keeps in contact with the lads and fans over the next few days via his phone, being more of the "face" of the band with Niall's help. Niall's known for his regular Twitter updates and it placates the few who are miffed that the band didn't play out their last tour dates. You can't please everyone, even when it's something as personal as this, an event that to most would be a no-brainer on decisions to be made. Harry hasn't texted him or phoned, but Liam figures it's because of everything he still has to do—family to see as they come in from around the country and all the little things that need wrapping up before Friday.

He ends up going to the service on his own, Niall having stayed at Zayn's for the past few days on the other side of town instead of heading home to Ireland. The church is a tiny place, still beautiful, and close enough to Harry's childhood home for a bit of normalcy in celebrating his mum's life. There are a few camera crews and paps out front, but the band and management ask politely for the family to be left alone; there aren't too many, including a small group of fans who stand on the other side of the road after laying flowers along the fence of the church earlier. They don't call out, don't take photos, and it's nice once in a while to see that their fans aren't just crazy girls out for what sometimes feels like their blood but are actually quite human under all the ear-splitting screaming that has gone on since the band's X-Factor days.

The band sit close together. The church is packed with family and close friends, a sea of black around them. Harry has Lou on one side and Gemma on the other, and she's flanked by her husband and their stepdad last. It's incredibly hard watching Harry try to be strong for his family, only to break down completely against Gemma's side the moment the curtain closes and the coffin disappears. They lean on each other as they make their way back up the aisle that only months ago his sister was walking down on a day that had the complete opposite feeling of today.

Liam doesn't go to the wake afterward. That night on his sofa, after Gemma's words played over and over in his head, he'd made a promise to himself to get some space and reevaluate his life. He can't go on with this stupid one-sided pining for someone who not only is in a relationship with someone else but has the quite real possibility of being with that person forever. Liam doesn't let on that he's not going with the others. He manages to say his apologies to Gemma and a stoic Robin before catching up with the lads again where they surround Harry and Lou.

Liam tries hard not to be awkward when Harry nearly falls into his arms, sobs still going strong albeit silently by now. Liam wonders how he has any tears left, knowing how gutted Harry has been in the near week since this started. He does, though, and Liam can feel his neck and the front of his shirt becoming wet and sticking against his skin as Harry's hold tightens around his body, his nails nearly breaking through the fabric where Harry's hands have slid under his suit jacket.

Liam pats at Harry's back, making soothing noises and trying not to touch Harry any more than a good friend would in these circumstances. It's hard, though, with Harry clinging on and Lou's hand on Harry's shoulder—a reminder that Liam can't be everything for Harry, as much as he wants to, because Harry has someone for that. He eventually gets Harry to let go and presses his lips to Harry's forehead, apologising for his loss once more because Liam honestly has no idea what else to say at a time like this—not that anything feels good enough, will mean enough, anyway.

If anyone notices him heading in the wrong direction for the wake, nothing is said, and his phone stays silent well after he gets back to the city and his flat. He spends the afternoon staring again out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the view of the Thames his flat provides, the silence letting his thoughts drift back and forth over how his absence might be taken. Liam can't feel like anything but an utter twat while he's here hiding from someone who asked him to come and wanted him to be there, purely because it's going to cause Liam more pain in the long run.

He's a shitty friend, he knows this, but he'd rather be a shitty friend than have Harry be _Harry_ and screw up his emotions. No, Liam's made the decision: the only way to move forward is to use the band's planned break after the funeral to rid himself of this stupid crush he's had on Harry for far too long and try to move on. It's probably the world's worst timing, but Liam knows if he doesn't do it now he'll be watching Harry and Lou get married. Then it'll be them adopting cute babies from weird-sounding countries, and Liam will be agreeing to be the kids' godfather or something like that. His whole life will continue to revolve around pining after a man who only once returned any sort of feeling for Liam at all.

It's nearing eleven when he decides to turn in for the night. He's switching off the few lights he had on when there's a knock at his door, followed by his name being called by the one person he'd hoped to escape from. His heart sinks and all the guilt he's been avoiding thinking about for most of the day returns full force.

When Liam opens the door he finds a very, very drunk Harry Styles barely managing to stand upright behind it. Harry is still in the suit he wore earlier; only his tie is missing and he's got one sock on—no shoes—as he sways, hand frozen in mid-air about to knock again. When Harry raises his head and sees the door open he barges in, nearly knocking Liam on his arse in the process. All Liam can smell is whiskey, not even a hint of a mixer on Harry's breath, as Harry pushes at Liam's chest, causing Liam to bounce off the wall as Harry staggers forward.

"Where were you, you tosser?" Harry spits, his eyes glassy and bloodshot and by the looks of things, probably seeing double of Liam as he shoves at him again and again. "Where were you? I looked _everywhere_ and you weren't there. They told me not to, but I did."

Liam backs up, tries to reach out for Harry to give him some support, but Harry just pushes his hands away. He comes at Liam, his palm slapping relentlessly against the soft grey tee Liam had changed into when he got back home.

"Harry, Harry—how'd you get here?" Liam asks as Harry keeps repeating the same words, punctuating them with slaps on any part of Liam's torso he can get his hands on. They're at least going in the general direction of the living room, so Liam lets Harry continue to hit and hit and mumble words that Liam understands express anger at Liam's having forgone the wake.

"Harry, how did you get here?" Liam tries again when Harry has finally stopped slapping him, only to head to the little bar Liam hardly ever remembers to stock. He's not been here in nearly a year; before that was the studio and before that writing, something he does completely shut off from anything social. Harry lifts a bottle that once held Malibu, one that Liam's mum had drunk at his bloody housewarming years back, and smiles when he shakes it and it makes an obvious sloshing sound. He deposits the lid, along with his keys, on the coffee table and tips the bottle back against his lips, spilling most of the liquid down his front. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and sets the bottle down with shaking hands, laughing as it tips on its side, thankfully not breaking.

"Well, that tasted like shit. Least it's all gone now," Harry snickers as he pats at the mess on his shirt.

"Jesus fucking Christ, did you _drive_ like this, Haz?" Liam asks. His stomach plummets at the appearance of Harry's car keys and the fact that Harry is completely shit faced, if the way he stumbles his way back over to Liam is anything to go by. Questions of how the fuck Lou let him out like this and why no one was watching him run through Liam's head as Harry pulls them both tumbling down onto the sofa.

"No one would take me, and no one would tell me why you didn't come. Why weren't you there? I wanted you." Harry leans against Liam's shoulder and Liam wraps his arm tentatively around Harry's back. Harry leans into his touch, because even though Harry may sound angry, he's rather snuggly when he's had a few and it's the most normal thing between them to be like this.

"Wanted you," Harry says after a moment. All the fight from earlier has left his body sometime between the Malibu shot and landing on the sofa. Liam sighs, giving up on berating Harry when he's like this, and lets his hand stroke gently up and down Harry's arm. He thinks about who he should call first, and if it's Louis, how he'll keep his anger in check that Louis _let_ Harry go out in this condition. Louis should have hidden Harry's keys or at the very least tackled him to the ground when it was apparent he really wanted to leave. Any of them could have called Liam to come back. He would have—maybe.

"Where were you, Li? Nobody could tell me," Harry says sleepily, shifting so his feet are up on the sofa and his head slips down against Liam's chest.

"I was here. I came home," Liam answers truthfully because there's no point in lying. Harry being this trollied, he won't remember a thing in the morning—which is fine by Liam. Well, until he has to give Harry a right royal bollocking for driving in this state, let alone the lads because they were there and should have stopped him. Then Liam realises he doesn't even know if they _were_ there, and if they weren't it would have just been Lou and Gemma, and he knows they both give in to Harry too easily, even when he's sober.

Liam chews at his lip as Harry slides down further until his head is in Liam's lap. Liam's fingers hesitate above messy curls where they've fallen over Harry's face, shifting with every breath from his lips. This Harry is so broken, the fight from earlier like a sparkler—bright and glowing when he was at the door but now fizzled to nothing, barely a red ember as Harry nuzzles into Liam's thigh like it's a pillow. Liam shakes his head, the war on trying to scold Harry in this condition completely gone once his fingertips run through Harry's curls. The answering sigh tugs at Liam's heart as Harry turns his head into Liam's touch.

"Where's Lou, Harry? Why aren't you with him, eh?" he whispers. Harry's eyes drift closed, as if all he needed was Liam's touch to settle everything that was riling him up and filling his body with tension and hurt. Harry yawns loudly, his mouth open obscenely wide before closing again, his lips smacking around the words that tear at Liam's heart and resolve.

"Wasn't you. Wanted you," he mutters, his hand wrapping around Liam's knee as if holding onto Liam will ensure he won't go. "Needed you."

It shouldn't make Liam feel as good as it does. Shouldn't make him feel like he's got one up on Louis, because he doesn't. Not really. This is just Harry being Harry and doing that thing where he relies on Liam for all the heavy stuff but is with Louis in the end. Anger at being so used spikes hot and painful through Liam's chest and he considers ringing Louis—his phone is just on the side table—and telling him off, telling him that _his_ Harry is here and safe and no, don't bother to come and get him because it isn't you he wants. But he doesn't, because this _is_ Harry and Liam's closed the door on this—well, maybe nearly shut the thing because Harry is drunk and Harry is hurting worse than anything before and he wants Liam. Liam can't really argue with that now. Maybe later, in the morning.

For now, he runs his fingers through Harry's hair and presses a thumb lightly over his brow, straightening out the tension that lies beneath because today was hard on Harry. Today was probably the hardest thing Harry has ever had to go through and Liam will be here for Haz. Even if it's just for one night more.

:::

When Liam wakes, it's with Harry in his arms and a crick in his neck from having his head at an odd angle against the arm of the sofa. Liam remembers playing with Harry's hair until his own eyes started to close and he eventually slid down beside Harry. They must have shifted around during the night because Harry's head is on Liam's chest and Harry is virtually lying on top of him, his leg curved over Liam's thigh. Liam doesn't want to move, not even to breathe really, because it's . . . nice, this half-asleep state where Harry is pressed against him and he's making that whistling noise through his nose that Liam remembers from sharing a room with him in the beginning. For a few moments Liam lets himself pretend that Harry could have ever been his. That waking up like this could have been an everyday occurrence, not a one-off.

Liam wiggles his fingers from where his arm's half off the couch, pins and needles flooding his fingertips, and tries not to jostle Harry too much. He doesn't want to wake him yet, not with Harry looking this peaceful, because if anyone deserves to rest it's Harry. The numbness in his hand is just about gone and Liam has no idea where to put it without disturbing Harry. He ends up kind of resting it in the small space between Harry and the edge of the sofa. It's not that he doesn't want to touch Harry—he's pretty much a human blanket on Liam at the moment—but if Liam really is going to try not to think of Harry in any other way than as a friend, the extra touching is going to have to end.

Harry is warm, and from this position Liam could bend his head just a little and have the tip of his nose brush against soft curls. He's not thinking about doing it, not really, but then he is, and the instant he breathes in, Harry moves. It's just where his hand rests on Liam's stomach, but Liam can feel the restless flicker of Harry's fingers all the same. He freezes up, his heart thumping extra loud because Harry's awake and real life is about to come storming back in again.

Harry yawns, his fingers gripping Liam's shirt tightly, and pulls himself even further onto Liam's body, rubbing his face against Liam's chest. "Morning," he says in that low, gravelly voice he gets—deeper and richer when he first wakes from sleep and one that Liam might have wanked off to a few times in the early years. That was before Harry had completely chosen Louis. That half-grin that graces Harry's face now was one Liam would never see on a daily basis in a bed the two of them would share.

"Morning," he mumbles back, stifling a groan as Harry stretches his legs, rubbing his body in a deliciously cat-like way over Liam that he can feel _everywhere._ Liam can't help but bring his hand up to rest on the small of Harry's back when he wobbles dangerously to the side, like Harry might fall.

"Li?"

"Yeah?" Liam answers, his hand rubbing circles over Harry's shirt, something he doesn't even realise he's doing until Harry makes a pleased sound somewhere in his throat. Liam should stop; he's already confused having Harry here and waking up to him like this, and he _told_ himself he wasn't going to do this any more. No more of these moments that were something he could never quite figure out.

But he doesn't.

He just continues and considers spreading his legs wider so Harry can fit between them a little better. Just so Harry won't fall off the sofa. Nothing more.

"My mum's gone, Li."

Liam closes his eyes and feels the pain of loss, of Harry's loss, sharp in his chest. He hates that there is any reason for Harry's voice to sound so full of hurt and yet utterly empty at the same time. "She is."

Harry looks up then, resting his chin on Liam's chest and smiling a little up at Li with fluttering lashes, as if he's trying to blink the sleep from his eyes. He has no idea how this makes Liam's heart beat that little bit faster.

"She liked you, you know. Always told me you were a lovely one."

Now even Liam's eyes are stinging because he always liked Anne, they all did. She was Harry's mum but brilliant and caring with all of them over the years, and like the rest of them Liam had grown close and fond of her, too. The hurt they all felt, even Liam, was just as much for Harry's loss as for their own of someone special in their lives.

"I liked her, too," he answers after clearing the lump from his throat, swallowing hard.

"I'm a mess, Liam. I don't know what I'm doing, but you—you always look after me," Harry says. He stretches up so his nose is brushing Liam's cheek, so close that Liam can count the tiny freckles that cross the bridge of Harry's nose from all the sun they caught on tour.

Harry's moody greens are remarkably bright and clear considering how drunk he was the night before. The only physical remnants of his inebriated state are dark shadows under his eyes, almost purple and bruise-like as he stares at Liam. His lips quirk up at one side and Liam feels Harry's hand slip under his shirt, the soft pads of his fingertips brushing cool and soft against his sleep warmed skin. Liam shivers at his touch. It's more than friendly, even though Harry probably hasn't a clue that it is. Or maybe Liam just thinks about these things too much. Maybe it's the way friends are supposed to be around each other but in all the years he's been mates with Zayn and Niall they've never been like this. Just him and Harry, and the way he watches Harry with Lou—and that thought alone is enough for him to feel sick to his stomach.

Harry has Lou. Harry has Lou. _Harry has Lou._

"And," Harry says, his hand sliding up over Liam's chest and curling around Liam's cheek to tilt his face to Harry's side. Wherever Harry touches, Liam feels this buzzing underneath his skin because it's wrong how much he wants this, craves the attention from Harry. He wants to ask Harry why him, and why is he here, and why, why, _why_ , but he can't. He can't because Harry's thumb brushes over Liam's bottom lip, catching on the dry skin and pulling it down a little while Harry just _stares_ at him.

"I just want to say," Harry begins, and his pink tongue slips out, making his lips shine nearly as bright as his eyes, "thanks," and Liam can feel Harry's knee pressing into the cushion as he pushes up and closer and.

"Harry—" is all Liam gets out before he's cut off by Harry's lips on his, a kiss that turns demanding almost from the second skin meets skin. It feels amazing, just for an instant, then Harry's tongue is pressing against the bow of Liam's top lip and it suddenly _doesn't_ any more. A cold chill spreads through Liam's limbs because this—this is not right. Liam doesn't kiss him back, just turns his head and feels Harry stiffen above him. This isn't what Liam wants, to be kissed as some sort of consolation prize for being a good friend. As lovely as Harry feels against him, and as much as he's wanted to be kissing Harry again, this isn't the time.

Harry groans and pulls himself up and off Liam with a soft "Fuck, sorry. Fuck, _fuck!_ " before sitting at the end of the sofa as Liam does the same. There's a good few feet between them now and Liam can't help but run the back of his hands over his lips—not trying to brush the feel of Harry off but not trying to memorise it, either. His insides feel all twisted because of the _wrongright_ of it all.

They sit there in silence and Liam is just staring at his bare feet, willing this tension to disappear between them, but it doesn't. It stretches and stretches, shrinking all Liam's feelings of it being awkward and maybe apologising to Harry instead for whatever. But then something snaps and annoyance fills the void. All he's ever done is be there for Harry, and the one moment he takes time for himself, takes himself away from the situation and leaves Harry for someone else—like his boyfriend—to deal with, Harry still expects Liam to make everything better. This isn't fair, not when he can't have Harry completely. Not when his true feelings aren't ever going to be returned.

Anger at feeling so used burns quickly in his gut and he's spitting out the words before he realises he's saying them. "Why did you come here? Why did you come here to me?" He turns and sees Harry shrug, his head in his hands and his form almost doubled over.

"Because you're Liam," Harry says softly. "Because I needed you," he adds with a sigh.

Liam turns, resting one bent leg on the seat. "Why not Louis? Aren't you engaged or something?" he asks, suddenly feeling the urge to have Harry see what choices he is making, see what most people see in the fact that he keeps coming to Liam and ignoring the one he should be with. Not the friend, but the man who is supposedly something more.

Harry just shakes his head, straightening up and looking straight out to the windows and beyond where the city was waking, a purple and pink dawn filling the horizon. "No, we're not. He asked—he asked that last night I was with all of you in America, but I couldn't. I told him I needed time to think, and then Gemma called and it's all so . . . I don't know any more."

This news slows Liam's reaction for a moment. It explains why Louis didn't fly out with Harry straight away. It explains Zayn's near warnings not to hassle Louis about it, and why Harry might have called Liam instead. Why he wanted Liam then and why he wants Liam now. It gives flare to the tiny light of hope that Liam keeps inside for a possibility of something occurring between them. Just a little, but enough that Liam is sick of having Harry act so oblivious to it all. Makes Liam want to make him _see._ "So why are you _here,_ why are you always coming to _me_?"

"I don't know," Harry says, and Liam gets even further frustrated. He slides off the sofa to kneel in front of Harry, who virtually looks right through him, dropping his eyes to the floor. "Come on, Harry. There has to be a reason you keep picking me."

Harry shrugs again, and it's even more annoying than his inability to look up and look at Liam long enough to give him a straight answer. "I don't know, Li. I just needed you. I knew you'd make me feel better, you just—you make everything better."

"But you're _with_ Louis. Louis is the one who should be doing all of this with you, Haz, not me," Liam starts out. His voice is firm and he wills his hand not to reach out and push Harry's hair out of his face so he can at least see Harry's stupid eyes. See if Harry understands what Liam's trying to make him see.

"But he's not the one I want."

Harry says this with no hint of what those words do to Liam. Hearing this stupid twat in front of him keep saying this without any realisation of what it means. It's enough to drive anyone mad, and Liam laughs, reaches both hands up and fists them into his hair, nearly pulling half of it out in frustration. It's times like now that he really feels the small age gap between them. Harry's thoughts can be so childish, so immature, as if he hasn't grown up at all with the rest of them and is perpetually sixteen. "But you don't want me. You should be with Louis."

Harry's head flicks up then, and his look is so full of hurt it verges on anger. "So you want me to go? If you didn't want me here you should have said. I'm sorry to be such a fucking burden, Liam!" He pushes off the sofa and moves past Liam, and it's all Liam can do to get up in time to grab at Harry's arm to get him to stop. He doesn't want him leaving like this, doesn't want him to think Liam doesn't care about him, but in the same instant he needs Harry to see what he's doing, what his actions do to Liam time and time again, and the effect he has on the people around him who love him in some shape or form. He needs to see that what he's doing isn't fair to Lou or to Liam. Definitely not to Liam, who won't have Harry in the end. Maybe not even as a friend, after all of this.

"You just don't get it, do you? Of course I want you, I want you all the time, but you're not _with_ me, Harry."

Harry stills his attempts at pulling out of Liam's hold. It's quiet again in the flat. Not that Liam would know—his breathing and heart are playing quite a loud symphony in his ears and chest. Liam drops his eyes to the floor and stares at a dent that Zayn put there when Liam moved in by dropping the coffee table at an odd angle. He keeps staring even when Harry slips out of his grasp, because he can't look up. Can't bear to see if Harry is still as stupidly oblivious or has finally figured out that Liam is really laying it all bare.

"I can't keep doing this, Harry. I can be your friend if you want, but you can't keep coming to me like this. I won't let you do this to me any more. It hurts too much and you're—you're—I just can't." He finishes with a sob, because it's the truth and Liam's chest _aches_ from speaking aloud what he's held inside for so long.

Harry says nothing. Continues to say nothing, and the silence eats at Liam. The more Harry just _stands_ there, the more Liam wants to collapse. Wants to fall to the floor and just lie there for a thousand years because he knows that this is the end of what once was. There won't be any more moments where he can trick his stupid heart into thinking Harry does love him a little. There won't be any more moments where he can pretend Louis doesn't exist, that the whole fucking world doesn't exist because it's just the two of them.

Liam's finally taking Zayn's near-unspoken advice and cutting the cord that should have been severed long ago, because it's more like an anchor in a sea of one-sided interest and he needs to be free. As much as it hurts, as much as Liam doesn't believe there's anyone else out there for him, he truly does need to let Harry go if there's even to be the slightest possibility of there being anyone else.

Harry breathes out loudly and Liam stills because this is the first sign he's had that Harry's still even in the room with him. He's still not looking at Liam; instead, his eyes are focused on the floor as he nods and says in a voice so soft, "Okay. Okay."

When Liam finally looks up, Harry is picking his keys up from the coffee table, and without another word he walks out the door. Harry's gone and Liam stands in the middle of his flat. For the first time in such a long time he feels truly alone.  
 **  
**


	3. part three

**[part three]**

It's the end of September, three months since everything that happened in his flat with Harry and Liam's giving his little cottage one last look-over to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything. It's not like he should have; he's been packing for his return home for the last week now, basically living out of one of the smaller bags over the past few days. It's his favourite place to come to, just like he does every year on the band's main break so he can have peace and quiet and time to write. They all usually work on ideas during the year—most of it spent on tour, so they get together when they can, but most of the time they're focused on what the set list is and where they're playing next. So when it comes to a large chunk of time away, Liam—who writes a lot of the lyrics and compositions—likes a complete getaway to get his head in order.

It's not like he's run away from anything back in London.

It's not like he purposely left his phone in his flat and travelled all the way to the tiny seaside town in Scotland that no one apart from his parents have any idea of just to get away from anything.

Anyone.

No, this getaway is normal for Liam. This is something he's done for the past three albums, so it's nothing new. He loves this place; it's quiet and most of the townsfolk who live here have no idea who he is, the small populace made up of mostly those over the age of forty who've never even heard of One Direction, let alone its most private member of the group. And even if they had (and he's fairly certain Milly, who runs the only store in town, has some inkling of who he is), they'd never let on that they had—and would most likely run anyone out of town who came in search of him. It's nice to be mostly anonymous—just that southerner who owns the old McIntosh place and eats at the pub every other night.

He makes sure his laptop is snug and safe in the front seat. His notebook is in there, too, full of chunks of lyrics and whispers of tunes he wants to play with later. He's written his heart out in these past three months. It's like his confrontation with Harry about everything has cleared a path for words to come, and Liam feels like it's the best stuff he's written for years. The lads all come to the table with stuff they've worked on during the year, lyrics and riffs and bits of sound they've played around with on their own. Then they bang it all out at Niall's—it's this grand house in Ireland that's in the middle of nowhere. They've not recorded anywhere else since Niall bought the property, there's just so much to do when they just aren't feeling it: horses, a pool, quad bikes, and a great bar, not to mention he's set up a studio that's bloody brilliant. Liam's actually quite excited about what lies under the plain brown leather binding and even more so about what he recorded, bits of himself that are password-protected in his old Mac. It makes the thought of going back home a little less depressing. It's the first time in years that he's really wanted to share everything with the lads and hear the bits he knows will suit each of them in turn sung or played in a voice that isn't his own.

Liam finishes packing the last of his bags into his car and takes one last look out over the ocean, tugging his collar up a little before starting his trip home. In many ways he doesn't want to head back to old London town. He'd much rather stay here and have the odd glass of good whiskey and listen to the ocean smash into the cliffs he's sure will one day fall and swallow his cottage whole. He'd much rather not have to go back and face everything he truly did _not_ run away from.

The drive back feels like it takes forever. He makes his regular stops and stays the night at his parent's place, sleeping in his old bedroom and ignoring his mother's stare that asks so many questions. He loves his mum, truly he does, but he just cannot take any more of her concerned looks and her hands over his at the breakfast table as she asks him if "everything is all right?" Really, it's too hard to lie to her this time; it's hard enough to lie to himself. Even his dad hasn't been of help this time around, quieting his mum with a "Leave the boy, love," but still looks at Liam like he wants to know the answers too. Answers Liam isn't sure he has that won't sound pathetic really. He leaves early the next morning, way before his mother is due to wake, and quickly passes out with a quick expression of love for his own bed when he finally makes it back to London and his flat.

It's around ten the next day, after Liam's had breakfast—his cleaner had been in the day before and left a few groceries and a stew that she makes for him whenever he's been away for a while because she knows "what you young men eat and it's not good enough, you're still growing." He's sipping on his tea, sitting out in his living room and pretending to admire the view. He still sometimes has to pinch himself to believe he actually owns a flat that looks out upon it. Liam is not staring at his phone. Not staring at the little black rectangle that's been turned off ever since Harry left his flat that morning all those months ago. Liam is definitely not wondering whether there will be messages from Harry there. Or Louis. Or Zayn. There probably will be from Niall; he can't help but text ridiculous things even when he knows Liam won't get them until he gets back and probably won't understand what they're in relation to, either. Management will probably want him to call so they can make sure he'll be flying out to Niall's place on Thursday so the band can start working on a new album.

Finally, with a "Fuck it," Liam picks up his phone and turns it on.

His inbox is full of new texts and an incredible number of missed calls. He doesn't even bother checking his Twitter account—he hardly ever uses it, mostly just when they're on tour and to keep in touch like he's always done with the fans, but not for anything else. He flips through all his messages, keeping some and deleting others, and then he's at the final text and then he's done. He's done, and apart from Zayn saying he's sent him a few sounds to listen to, Niall confirming that he'll pick Liam up from the airport Thursday, and management checking the same thing, that's it for anything important.

No Louis. No Harry.

And it hurts a little. It shouldn't, because he basically told Harry to stay out of his life. But to not hear anything is strange, and new because if it's not Niall filling his phone with messages and phone calls, it's always been Harry. As much as it should make Liam feel good that Harry is giving him some space, it doesn't. Then again, Harry was grieving and Liam picked the absolute worst time to basically shove him away, so there's that, too. It's weird, and this "nothing" leaves him feeling slightly off-kilter. It's not what he intended when he said all of that to Harry—to lose him as a friend—because they're in a band together and they are supposed to have at least _that_ , under everything else Liam was hiding from him. It plays on Liam's mind a lot the rest of the week until he's lying in bed, trying to have an early night because management have got him on an arse-crack-of-dawn flight out to Ireland in the morning, and he picks up his phone.

_"Hey, Haz, how's things?"_

He's typing in the words before he can think about how lame it all sounds and hitting Send before he can talk himself out of it. Liam doesn't want it to be awkward between them when the band gets together at Niall's. He doesn't want Zayn to be giving him looks that read far too much into the situation, and he doesn't want to avoid being alone with Harry for fear of having to talk about shit all over again. Liam wants it to be fine. Wants it all to have some semblance of normalcy. He waits and he doesn't look at his phone or play with the buttons on it to make sure he has signal as the seconds of no-answer drag into minutes, and then it's an hour, and another, and Liam is feeling sick.

He is dozing with some horrid repeat of _This is Essex_ on when his phone buzzes in his hand on its loudest setting. He nearly jumps at the sound, flipping the book on his chest onto the floor, and the glasses he uses to read when he's tired at night go crooked on his face as he fumbles around in the bedding to find the bloody phone that got thrown in the air with his shock. His heart double-thumps when he sees it's a text from Harry. He opens it quickly because it's like a band-aid, and he knows the faster he does this the better it will be. Whether it's a positive or a negative or just a "Who is this and how'd you get my number?" Anything is better than nothing at all.

_"Good, see you at Niallers, yeah."_

Liam reads it three times before it sinks in that that's all there is. It's nothing, but it's something, and that settles Liam's nerves just a little. It still takes him another hour to fall asleep, and with that he's left with about four till he has to be up to catch the bloody plane.

Liam arrives first—somehow the other lads have managed to wrangle a later flight, which annoys Liam no end, but hey, he gets Niall to himself for a bit and that's a nice way to settle in. Niall greets him with a hug and a backslap before dragging Liam in the direction of his car. They talk about nothing and everything on the way out to Niall's. It's a good few hours out of Dublin in a place that bowls Liam over every single time with how _green_ it all is. Niall tells him that some interview came up that Harry and Louis have to do in the morning so they'll be on the same flight as Zayn and his mate, who they've got producing this album after getting along so well with him on the last. Liam wants to ask if there was a reason his flight didn't get pushed back, too, so they could all fly together, but figures that would be childish and petty. So he shuts up and asks Niall about some new broodmare he acquired recently. It's a good place to start, seeing as Liam has dodged a lot of the semi-personal questions Niall has asked none too easily. Any chance Niall gets to talk about his racing fillies means a conversation Liam doesn't really need to be much a part of.

They get to Niall's in high spirits and have a quick lunch before Niall kicks Liam down to the studio "before you fucking break my plate with your incessant tapping!" Liam smiles and nearly runs to the back of the house where the studio is located. Since he arrived he's been getting more and more antsy to actually put down his thoughts into a more focused form, especially before the others arrive. He can think now, in the quiet, and he runs his fingers gently over the keys of the baby grand Niall put in the room specifically with Liam in mind. It doesn't take him long to get set up—pencil and pad and the notebook that contains words and some finished songs, some of which he knows he'll need the others to stretch and pull into shape with him. When he sits down in front of the keys, a world of promise at his fingertips, Liam feels like everything is finally settling into place. He closes his eyes and starts playing one of the pieces that has a lot to do about love lost (which isn't really a surprise considering where his head has been lately) and gets carried away with just feeling where the sound wends and weaves.

The words come before long and Liam gets lost in playing with sound and emotion, soft and dark, and it's when he's letting the last note hang in the air that he realises someone is actually in the room with him.

"Sorry," Harry says, his cheeks pinking as much as Liam can feel his own doing.

In one word, one moment as Liam opens his eyes, all the ease he felt in this room is completely gone. Tension has built in its place in an instant because this is Harry who he said _things_ to and pushed away and then didn't even talk to for three months. Three months in which his friend has been facing his grief without the one person he wanted near from the beginning of it.

Guilt again finds its way to pressing deep in Liam's stomach and he forces himself to smile, even if it doesn't reach his eyes. "'s all right. Was just messing around."

"Sounded good, from what I heard," Harry says softly. He touches the top keys, a soft plink-plink in the topmost range echoing in the now silent room. He's avoided Liam's stare ever since Liam opened his eyes and looked to his right.

Liam shrugs. "Just a beginning,"

"Still, I liked it," Harry says with a little more conviction. "Just take a compliment, you twat."

And Liam smiles and knocks his shoulder into Harry's. "Wanker."

Harry grins back at him, and just like that the awkwardness between them is gone. It's still a little strange because of what Liam has pent up inside, but it's easier. They play Chopsticks together for a moment, knocking at each other until it's more like a game of shoulder-barge on the bench than anything else. Laughter comes from both of them, light and easy, until it stops and Harry is looking at Liam and it's so serious, so different, that it fades the smile from Liam's face in an instant.

"Li?"

Liam licks at his lips, stilling his hands on the keys, and takes a deep breath to steady himself. His stomach is in knots again at the way Harry has said his name. If they were ever going to talk about what happened the night of the wake, it's probably best to get it over and done with now, while it's just them and no one else around.

"I'm sorry, Liam. I mean, I didn't—"

And Liam can't help but interrupt, to still this line of discussion, because above everything he doesn't want to be _pitied_ by Harry for the fact that his feelings aren't returned. He can't have that on top of having to watch Harry and Louis together. "It's okay. It's fine."

Harry shakes his head. His hand reaches out to still Liam's fingers where he's nervously pressing two of the keys, one after the other. "No, I need to say it. I need to tell you before—"

"Leeeyum, mate! Nialler said you came down here hours ago. Thought you might have passed out or something. Good to see you haven't!" Lou bounces into the room in a way that only Louis can and wraps his arm around both Liam and Harry, pulling them closer together. It feels even more awkward than normal because this is Louis and he isn't _this_ hands-on with Liam, ever.

"Did you tell him? Or were you waiting for me?" Louis says, and Liam's head's squashed up against Louis' chest, his face turned to the side so he can see one of Harry's eyes.

"Tell me what?" he manages to squeak out, Louis' hold under his chin distorting his words.  
Harry's eyelashes flicker for a moment and Liam swears he can see Harry's lips form the word "Sorry" before Louis lets them go, his hand immediately digging under the vee of Harry's shirt.

"Harry went on about how he was always losing rings, so we put it on here instead. He said yes, matey! Hazza and I are getting hitched!" Louis pulls out the silver chain Liam had assumed earlier was any one of the necklaces Harry wore; but this one, this has a simple band with a chip of diamond in it, catching the light.

So that's what the "sorry" was about, then.

Sorry for not telling you before my big-mouth boyf—no—fiancé—told you?

Sorry that I kissed you, it really was just a misplaced thank-you, nothing more?

Sorry I can't be who you want me to be?

Maybe sorry meant nothing at all, but the news numbs Liam all the same. For as much as he thought the conversation he'd had with Harry before heading to Scotland had killed anything romantic between them, it hadn't completely—but this? This draws a completely new line in the sand, and Liam's left stranded on the side where the water is rushing in and in and he's drowning and alone.

He forces himself to congratulate them. The words sound false and hollow in his own ears as Harry just stares at him and Louis chatters on and on, but Liam can't hear it. He's underwater now, everything muted and dull, and there isn't even hurt here, just this nothing. But he can deal with this. He can push past it and do his best at pretending to be happy. Christ knows he's done it for so many years now it should be as natural as breathing. If only he could get his face to work properly.

He breathes and nods and forces the smile he's worn for eight years onto his face, finally urging his muscles to do something more than the absolute stunned look they seemed to have frozen in. Liam finally blinks and turns, looking for an easy out, but Niall and Zayn are in the room now and there's back-slapping and smiling faces and probably laughter. But Liam's still submerged in hurt and hears nothing.

Finally Zayn comes around to his side and shoves Harry off the bench, and sound returns with a wallop. Liam steadies himself, looks back down to his hands which are shaking obviously above the keys, and moves them to his lap, linking his fingers together and willing it all to just _stop._

"All right, you lot, fuck off upstairs, yeah? Need to play Li here something before I lose my muse and all that," Zayn says, and the rest of the lads make whining noises but move anyway. Zayn's always been a bit uncomfortable with bringing stuff to the group as a whole and they've learned to give him space.

When quiet has entered the space again—and Liam appreciates the help, the distance, with a smile that Zayn doesn't return—he just sighs. Zayn starts into something that Liam listens to avidly, pleased to have something else to concentrate on, and as the music wears on Liam thinks he can probably combine it with something he's already got. He listens to Zayn talk, watches his fingers move over the keys, and puts the rest of the day's news to the back of his mind.

Right beside where all his feelings for Harry are kept under lock and key.

Each day gets easier than the next. Liam makes sure he's not left alone with Harry in the first week—which for some reason Zayn is keen to help him out with—and after that Liam finds he doesn't have to _pretend_ to be "happy Liam" any more. He _can_ be happy for Harry—because in the end, he wants Harry to _be_ happy, and really, it's always been Louis. Their friendship was always more than simply two people who clicked right from the beginning, and if Liam ignores how he felt that way, too, then he can find a way to be happy for both of them.

Happy Harry. Happy Louis. And Happy Liam.

Happy.

He hates the word.

:::

The songs come to them fast and easy, everyone keen to provide input and exploring new sounds that only enhance the feel of who they are as a whole. Any upbeat, uplifting love songs mostly come from Niall and the ridiculously exuberant couple. Liam finds it hard to contribute but will offer up some sort of opinion if and when he has to. He leaves the lyrics up to the others for anything positive and romantic, annoying the producer instead for hints and tips and things because Liam has got further plans to get into that field one day. It's due to this interest, which isn't new at all, that he finds himself spending a lot of time with Dan and Zayn by default. They get out a bit and use days when things just aren't working right or if the lads are tired or if Harry and Lou are involved in "wedding talk" to escape the house and all things to do with being in a band.

Liam likes Dan. He's a friend of a friend Zayn met a few years back when Zayn was a guest of one of their label's up-and-coming artists. Liam can't remember who, because at the time Harry and Lou were having one of their "breaks" and Harry was taking up the guest room space—which was sometimes just Liam's bed—to sleep and be held and not cry at all. Whenever Harry was having troubles with Louis he'd come to Liam, and Liam would accept him with open arms because every single time he thought it would be the last time and that he and Harry could . . . but there won't be any more times and it's never going to happen again.

Liam isn't sure if Harry cares or even notices that Liam is spending more time away from him than normal. Harry _is_ busy with wedding things and planning. Louis is in some sort of seventh heaven figuring out their "special day", and it takes a _lot_ sometimes just to get Louis' head out of the bloody laptop on wedding sites or magazines and into the studio. Dan is a great distraction—not in a relationship way at all because the man is a straight as an arrow, but he's got stories and he gets music the way Liam does so their friendship becomes something that Liam needs and leans on.

Weeks turn into a month and then they're all sitting around the pool in what passes for hot August weather in this part of Ireland when Liam feels a shadow block out his sun. He blinks behind his glasses, getting used to the sunlight and lack of heat, and is able to make out the distinct shape of Louis in front of him. And like that, the warmth of the day disappears.

"Can I've a word?" Louis asks, an upturn of his lips the only hint of emotion Liam can find, and he's definitely looking.

Liam nods and tilts his head toward the empty seat beside him. He picks up the bottle of water he has beside him and wishes it was something much stronger, because he knows he'll need something for whatever it is that Louis wants to discuss with him. He and Louis haven't really spoken in private for a long time—not just here at Niall's but before the funeral, before the tour—maybe even before Harry and Lou went public. They were close once, but a great big Harry-shaped wedge kind of stopped that. Louis works his way through the small amount of space between the chairs, but instead of lying down like Liam is, he sits on the edge, mostly in Liam's space.

"Look, I know I've been a bit of a dick lately with all the planning and shit," he starts, and Liam sits up a little. This talk is not starting anywhere near where he thought it would. "And we don't really talk and whatever, but we—Harry and me—we wanted to ask you before we talked to the others."

Louis' blue eyes are on Liam and there's such a sincerity to his stare that the only reason Liam's gut is twisting is because of Louis's fingers twitching in his lap, picking at a stray piece of cotton on his shorts. "Would you consider being our best man?"

Liam just stares at him because this wasn't what he thought Louis meant when he said he wanted to talk. This wasn't expected at all really, because he knows Lou and Harry aren't being all that traditional with the ceremony. He figured they'd all be invited—can only imagine that management would force them to be if they weren't—but this?

"I know it might seem weird coming from me, and I know there's been this distance between us for a long time. But we—Harry really wants this and he's already agreed to so many of my things. He would have asked you himself but he's afraid you'll say no—you won't, will you?" Louis ends his strange, almost nervous rambling on a high note.

Louis is looking at Liam from under his fringe. Liam can see the hesitance there and it makes him wonder if Harry told Louis about Liam. Then Louis' eyes shoot past Liam to where Harry and Niall were demolishing a plate of sandwiches earlier and Liam wonders if Harry has ever told Louis anything at all about what has gone on between them. Surely if Louis knew he wouldn't be the one asking for this; he probably would ban Liam from the wedding, management or not. He definitely wouldn't be sitting here all nervous and twitchy about asking Liam to do this for Harry. And it's really the latter half of that thought that has Liam pausing before he gives Louis his answer. Harry wants him but doesn't want to ask.

That in itself hurts Liam more than he thought possible.

Did Harry really think they couldn't at least be friends after all of this?

"So?" Louis says, dragging out the word and Liam wants to say something snippy like, "Why didn't your fiancé ask me himself?" or "If Harry really wants me to, he knows where I am," or "No, no, a thousand times no," but he hears himself saying "Of course I will" instead.

It feels like every beat of his heart is a kick to his insides, hammering out the word _stupid, stupid, stupid_ with every thud.

Louis grins and pats Liam's arm awkwardly, almost as if he's going in for a hug, but then he thinks better of it and wanders off in Harry's direction. Liam surreptitiously slides his gaze to the side, thankful that his glasses cover most of his tracking of Louis, and watches as he wraps his arms around Harry's neck, his mouth close to Harry's ear. Harry's face shifts through several different expressions—anger at the beginning and then this weird neutral look before settling on a smile that looks almost false when Louis presses a kiss to his cheek before planting himself on Harry's lap.

Liam kind of hates himself for agreeing to this, even more so when Harry turns in his direction, face hidden to the others by the back of Louis' head, and mouths the word "Thanks." Liam doesn't say anything in return or even make any sort of reaction that says he saw what Harry said. He just lies there in the sun wondering yet again how his life turned into this.

The album starts to take a back seat to the wedding—Louis is not able to focus on songs when he's thinking about the wheres and the hows and the suits and whatever other shit goes along with planning his big gay wedding. Harry is good for a while, but as they come to the end of their second month with Niall he's constantly being dragged back and forth by Louis to look at something or ring someone. In the end they have about twenty or so songs in good enough shape for the album to take back to management. Dan seems to think that with a short break to get everyone's head in the game (in other words, when Louis and Harry are actually _here_ , not just in the room) they'll be able to refine things even more.

Liam doesn't mind much when Louis takes off with Harry the moment Dan says they're well set with vocals. He doesn't mind that he and Harry have been nearly avoiding each other the whole time they've been in Ireland, apart from that first day and a handful of awkward late nights or early mornings in the halls. It's not something that bothers him so he can't sleep at night, because as much as Liam wants Harry to see that it's killing him to have but not really _have_ Harry all the time, he still wants Harry as his friend. They've been through too much to not even have their friendship at the end of all of this, but every time they're even possibly going to be alone together Liam finds himself escaping quick-smart or watching Harry do the same. It's weird, and it's awkward, and the morning he decides to talk to Harry about it he gets up to find that Harry and Louis have gone.

He and Zayn fly back a week later, Dan and Liam having arranged to finish adding the last little pieces to the album together back in the UK in October. Dan has a place he uses that has an opening and they work more on the songs, tightening up bits here and there with Zayn when he can drop in. Zayn's pretty busy, too, Louis and Harry having asked both of the other lads to be in the wedding as well, so nearly everyone is under some sort of instruction from Louis when it comes to wedding plans or the engagement party that's being held in November.

Liam mostly gets out of that side of things, and he makes sure to have his phone off while he's in working with Dan and to return calls when he has to. Even then he begs off the phone when anything more than "So, how's the album coming?" is asked. It's good to be busy, have his mind occupied, and he doesn't hesitate to stay in the studio till the wee hours of the night and early morning so he _can't_ think about anything else. When Dan asks if he minds sitting in on another record for a mate, Liam jumps at the chance, ignoring the hurt look that crosses Harry's face when he and Lou drop in to see if Liam will come looking at locations with them and, of course, he can't.

Soon the phone calls from Louis dry up and Harry barely texts at all, and the most Liam sees of his bandmates is Zayn. And even that's only when Zayn "accidentally" comes by when the female artist whose album Li is helping on is in the studio, too. Zayn's always been a little awkward when it comes to girls he's interested in, and even more so with this one. She's about seven years his junior and the epitome of what her dyed blonde hair screams, and Zayn seems to have fallen and fallen hard. Liam and Dan find it a source of great amusement, the more so when combined with their effort to see how long it takes each of them to make Zayn blush. Liam thinks it's a good thing that he can watch Zayn fumble head over heels with this girl and not feel a longing for something similar of his own.

And then Zayn will mention having to leave early that day because he's helping Harry with something as stupid as _boutonnieres_ , and Liam's chest aches and he has to go home, find some quiet for a moment.

Life begins to revolve around the studio, sleeping on the strangely comfortable sofa there, or the odd night out on the town with the people Liam's spending nearly all his time with these days. He learns more about the producing side of things, lends a hand with some lyrics, and ends up getting paid for the little he thinks he's had to offer on the whole. It's nice to know that his ideas and experience can be worth more than just what he does for the band he's in and only ever really been a part of. As much as he laughs off the offer of a more permanent role within Dan's company if he gets tired of the boy-band schtick, it is something to think about when he's all alone at night in his flat.

Zayn takes Liam aside one afternoon when they're done mixing for the day and they head out to the caf on the corner, which has slightly better coffee than the ancient machine in the studio does. They don't say much, never really do; communicating more by silences and facial expressions than words has always been their thing. Liam's nearly finished his cup and is picking at the muffin he's managed to eat half of when Zayn clears his throat.

"You all good, then?" Zayn asks, his eyes still focused on the street like they mostly have been since he and Liam sat down in a corner booth.

Liam shrugs. "With the vocals on that last track? I guess. It's more up to Dan really."

Zayn shakes his head. "No, with next month."

And with that, Liam's stomach starts contracting around the little he's eaten and the coffee is curdling because he _knows_ what next month is. Zayn must see the reaction on Liam's face because he turns and stares at Liam then, those dark eyes pushing and prodding without Zayn needing to say a word.

"Kind of have to be, don't I?" Liam says in an attempt to keep his tone light—and failing badly.

Zayn's frown deepens and Liam can feel pity coming off his friend in waves. "Harry loves Lou. You've got to get past this, mate. It's not good for you, or him or the band."

"I know," Liam answers too quickly, because he _does_ know how it could affect everything and everyone if he doesn't get himself in line. "I'm trying," he finishes. He turns his gaze back to the street, taunted by the perfect blue sky.

After that, he does try with Harry and Lou. He offers to find suitable music for the reception, discussing it mostly through texts and short calls with Louis and sometimes with Harry. It still hurts; every time he sees Harry's name light up on his phone he feels it in his chest, that twinge where his heart resides. As things fall into place, everything slows down and he finds himself with more time on his hands than he's used to.

There's no Christmas album to put together this year or even a song they can cover for a charity album. Management have given them a reprieve on any of that because of all that's going on with Harry and Lou. Normally Liam would be thrilled about this, but now it's just—it's too quiet. He finds himself stalking around his house like a caged lion, catching and far too often steering his thoughts away from what-ifs and maybes and how he could possibly have made things different. Every day is a reminder of what he's lost.

:::

The engagement party is being held at one of the nicer, secure hotels in town and it's a big glitz and glamour affair with more management involvement than Liam would have thought Louis and Harry would allow. There are people there who Liam doesn't even know, and a bunch of faces he recognises from when they _do_ have to go in to the label and see Simon or do appearances when they're releasing new albums. It's like a Who's Who of _The Sun_ 's most popular front pages here. And to top it all off, Harry and Lou are all over each other.

Liam makes a beeline for the bar after pushing through the crowd of people who know his name but he has no clue who they are, dodging those he does with a tilt of his head because, _fuck,_ if anyone needs a drink to get through this, it's him. Even now, with his health checks coming back positive for so many years, he still resists even the smallest amount of alcohol; but tonight is different. It feels a million shades of awful being here, and as much as he knows he shouldn't, he gets a drink anyway. Liam smiles and makes as little conversation as possible about how "happy he is" for his "best friends" and how "happy they are" and how "happy their life will be". If he has to say that fucking word one more time he'll stab someone with his swizzle stick.

So Liam drinks and drinks and hates himself a little for doing so. He finds a space in a mostly dark corner to avoid everyone once the lights turn down and Simon, of all people, takes the freaking stage to offer a speech. It's Simon, so it's heartfelt and full of lovely things laced with humour and "I remember whens", and it's killing Liam minute by minute as he stands there and has to listen to everyone say how great this is.

It's not great. It's fucking shit, because Louis may love Harry and Harry may _think_ he loves Lou and this is what he wants, but. It doesn't explain what Liam and Harry have had on the sidelines at the same time. It doesn't explain why Liam is hurting so much, breaking apart at the seams to hear everyone say how "perfect" Harry and Louis are and how "in love" they are and how "great" this is to have something positive after losing Harry's mum. Then Louis gets up and he's crying before he's said a word, and that's it for Liam. That is fucking it.

He's sat here and he's smiled and been nice for long enough. He turns back to the bar and without a care for his poor, lone working kidney and what this will do to it, he pays for a bottle of tequila and starts shooting it back on its own. It tastes awful—he's never been a big fan of the smell even—but the faster he drinks it the less attention he can pay to the words of love and sickly sweetness coming from the man who is taking his Harry away.

Too soon he knows that the few comments he'd thought he'd been making in his head in opposition to those said around him weren't actually in his head but were voiced out loud. There's a circle of incredibly orange-looking young women sitting not too far from Liam, and when they turn and _glare_ at him after he drops a few choice words about things he shouldn't, he pushes the bottle away. Not that it matters, he's well on his way to being almost too drunk to function, but then Harry is taking the mic off Louis and all it takes is Harry calling Louis "love" and Liam is sick to his stomach. He doesn't want to stay. He didn't even want to come but he had to make an appearance; he's one of the best men, after all, and now with his mouth and mind running away from him and his heart near bleeding all over the floor from how much this physically _hurts_ seeing them so happy together, he needs to go. It's just too much.

Liam doesn't wait for Harry to finish speaking, just eases himself off his stool and attempts to find a way out. He heads to the bathroom first, because he wasn't kidding about feeling sick. He splashes cold water on his face and mostly avoids his own reflection because he knows it won't be pretty or handsome or even decent with how much he's feeling right now. When he comes out he finds Paul waiting outside, no emotion on his stoic face but staring at Liam with arms crossed all the same.

"You knew, didn't you?" Liam asks as Paul puts a hand to his shoulder, righting Liam from his pitiful attempt at walking back down the short hall toward the party. "You knew everything, and we always pretended you didn't." Liam says these things, and even drunk he knows he's not making a lot of sense, but Paul says nothing. It's just his large hand on Liam's shoulder as they head in the opposite direction and down corridor after corridor until there's a service elevator and Paul is pushing him in.

If there's one bonus in finding Paul, it's that he'll make it possible somehow for Liam to escape without causing even more shit than his inebriated state already has.

"He doesn't, you know? He doesn't," _love me,_ Liam finishes in his head, leaning against the cool metal wall inside the elevator with Paul on his other side, and Christ if the world isn't spinning. Spinning and spinning and all he can see behind his eyes are Harry and Louis and that kiss Harry gave Louis during his speech, and the urge to vomit boils away in his gut again.

When they get to wherever it is they are going—down, and by the smell it's the carpark—Paul finally speaks. He physically holds Liam by the shoulders up against one of the concrete pillars and tells him to stay, five times, as if Liam is a dog or a cheeky child who might run away. Paul doesn't understand that that's what Liam is best at. He runs from his feelings, runs from what could have been and what he lost, and if he doesn't walk away now he might go back up and kiss the fuck out of Harry in front of everyone and ruin it all.

Liam says none of this to Paul, of course. The man left to get his car seconds after making sure Liam didn't move, and now Liam is all alone with his swimming head and stomach full of hurt. He opens his eyes a few minutes later, having heard footsteps, but he isn't prepared for the one good hit to his jaw that knocks him on his arse.

"How could you?" a voice spits, full of venom and Liam looks up with a giggle because _fuck_ that hurt, and he's sitting in a highly overpriced suit on a dirty carpark floor while Harry-stupid-life-ruining-Styles stands above him, rubbing at his fist.

It's wrong how much Liam wants Harry's fist to be sore, to match in some way the pain that Liam is _living_ through with all of this.

"How could you just leave like that? How could you leave without saying a fucking word, Li?"

Liam giggles, and it's definitely a giggle because if he doesn't laugh at this he'll cry. Harry looks absolutely furious with him and it can only be funny that Harry thinks he is _allowed_ to be annoyed with Liam when all that Liam's done has been everything for Harry before.

Harry is nothing short of insanely sexy when he's angry. His frown, green eyes flashing, and those lips of his all pouting and full and wrapping around words so soft but spoken so sharply are a completely deadly combination, and that sparks a whole new set of hurt to Liam's everything.

"A word. Can I go now?" he snorts. Harry rolls his eyes and crouches down beside Liam, but it's too close because Liam can smell Harry's cologne and what is definitely the faint odour of cigarette, the same brand Zayn uses.

Harry pulls the handkerchief out of his coat pocket, knocking Liam's hand out of the way to dab at the corner of his mouth, and Liam only realises that Harry actually caused him a bit more than a bruise when he sees the cloth come away with red on it.

He doesn't want Harry's help. He doesn't want anything from Harry any more, and definitely not tonight. He shoves Harry's hand away, and again when Harry offers it as Liam attempts to stand. "I stayed long enough," he says when he's finally upright again, head resting against the concrete behind him. He wishes Paul would hurry up before this gets any worse.

Paul doesn't arrive and Harry is still staring at Liam, completely pissed off. "No, you didn't. You were barely bloody there and everyone saw you drinking. What do you think they're gonna say about that, then? That you don't support me and Lou? That you don't want this wedding to happen?"

"I don't."

Harry stops whatever was going to be next in his " _Liam shouldn't drink_ " tirade and just stares at Liam, eyes wide. Liam can't actually believe himself that he said the words, because it's a lot more honest than he wanted to be. He didn't want Harry to know how upset he was and how all of this—the best man rubbish and the engagement party crap and the wedding—the _wedding_ was eating away at all the hope and good and love that Liam had inside. He didn't want Harry to know it was _killing_ him to see Harry happy with someone who wasn't him.

Harry blinks and Liam hates that he still wants to reach out and take the look of shock from Harry's face, to replace it with the smile he has loved for so long, but he can't. Harry blinks again and his mouth opens and closes before he gets out, "You—"

But Liam's thought filters aren't exactly functioning right now and his jaw is really starting to hurt and he has had _enough_ of hiding from what he feels. The words pour out of him like lava, hot and bubbling with all of his regrets and more. "Of course I fucking don't. I don't want to be at a fucking party being all fucking happy when my insides are being torn out because you're choosing him. I can't _sit_ there and watch you smile at him the way you should be smiling at me. I can't watch you kiss him when all I can remember is the taste of you on my lips, the feel of you on my skin. I can't watch you be with him when it should be me—you should be with me!"

Harry is still just staring at him but his eyes have changed. His brow furrowed with thought and it pisses Liam off even more when Harry starts out, "I didn't—" with a shake of his head.

Liam pushes off the pillar and pokes his finger at Harry, swaying but managing to stand up for the moment. "Bollocks you didn't know, Harry. Who do you come to when things turn to shit? Who did you want at your mum's funeral, even? Not him—me. And you fuck me up each and _every_ time, and each and every time I let you. But not this." Liam pauses because even as he is saying all of this, being as completely truthful as possible, it's only hurting him more and he hates that he feels like this.

"I can't do this. I'll come to your wedding, and I'll stand there and let you finally destroy all that was good between us, and I'll put it all behind me after and we'll be fine, but not tonight." And then his voice breaks and falters. "Just let me have tonight to hate you for choosing him," he finishes softly. And all the anger and gut wrenching pain at having to watch what he had always wanted slip through his fingers leaving him with nothing but regrets drains away and leaves him exhausted and empty.

Harry is still just standing there and Liam has never been so glad to hear Paul and his SUV rounding a corner, squeaking as wheels do on painted floors. Harry is still in the same position as before as Liam gets to the passenger door, not even bothering to look back because he's left everything out there. Every single piece of what had been building for so long now has been spoken, and it's gutted Liam completely. He has nothing left to give, nothing at all.

"Go, just go," Liam says as he opens the door. He waits until he hears Harry walk away, the sound of the elevator doors opening and closing again harsh in the vacuum left by everything that's been said. Liam gets in, closing his eyes, and gives in to grieving for something he never actually had.  
 **  
**


	4. part four

**[part four]**

Liam pretty much collapses in on himself after that night.

He stops answering his phone. Ignores the door buzzer and even manages to convince his housekeeper to take some time off. He lies on his couch most of the day just staring out into the cityscape and hating everything and everyone—but mostly himself. He can't stand that he broke and said all of those things to Harry. Blurted out every one of his secrets he had kept so closely guarded for so long, and now it's all out there. Now there will _always_ be Liam and his feelings just under the surface of all he'd ever have with Harry again. If he manages to have _anything_ with Harry after this.

The weeks leading up to Christmas he spends completely cut off from the world, but he knows his parents will be expecting him back home for the holiday, his sisters, too, so he can't hide out forever. Liam makes a promise to himself to use the small amount of time until the holiday to find a way to get over it. There has to be some sort of way he can go back to the way things were before that night, when he just lived with the pining and ache buried under a close friendship. So he lies around and squashes and presses his feelings into a box, labelling it "never to open" and tries to keep it closed in the closet that his heart has become.

Christmas is good, if not quiet. His mother is even worse this time with all the soft sighs and staring at him with questions in her eyes that he can only beg off answering with shakes of his own head. His dad even gets him on his own when he's outside one night, just gazing at the stars and not thinking about everything and offers his usual sage and cryptic advice. Liam blames the fact he's blinking so fast on a stray bug in his eye, and appreciates his dad even more so when he says nothing about the silent sobs Liam lets loose after his dad puts his arm around Liam's shoulder, pulling him in close. It's worse the next day when his sisters arrive and can see with one look that something is off. They both take turns at cornering him on Boxing Day and he shrugs his shoulders and tells them he's dealing with it. Liam doesn't know what's worse, lying to them or to himself.

He leaves early, claiming he has things to do for the band, and when his mother hugs him and asks him to say hi to all the boys, "especially your Harry," he nearly breaks and tells her everything.

On the drive back he turns his phone on and listens to it vibrate on the passenger seat with missed communications, which he deletes without reading, clearing his voicemail with the press of a button, and it helps. He shoots off a quick belated happy birthday text to Louis and ignores how every second between send and the returning text have him wondering what went on when Harry went back upstairs. Did Louis question the state of Harry's knuckles? Was Harry upset when he returned? Had anything changed while Liam had shut himself away?

The literal few minutes it takes for his phone to buzz again have Liam thinking the worst, but what he gets back just leaves him back at square one.

_"thx! Drinks @ ours 2nite if ur back in town. Dont 4get rehearsal dinner next wk. Harry sends his <3 xo" _

Nothing's changed. Nothing is different—well one thing is, and it's the fact that Liam is the only one who needs to realise that life is moving forward. If he wants to get past his ruined heart, he needs to let go of Harry. It's easier said than done. Every night he goes to sleep thinking it'll be better in the morning, and then he wakes and the hurt comes seeping back in and he's fucked all over again.

He actually answers his door when there's an incessant knocking on New Year's Eve. It's Zayn and he pushes past Liam the moment Liam opens the door and heads down the hall to where Liam's bedroom is.

"Just come on in, then, make yourself at home," Liam says to thin air as he shuffles in his dressing gown in the same direction as his friend. When he gets to the bedroom, it's only to see Zayn going through his closet, clothes flying over his shoulder and forming a none too neat pile on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Liam asks Zayn's back, dodging the maroon velvet jacket he'd worn on their first ever tour—something he didn't even realise he still _had_ in there.

He gets no answer, only more clothes and a set of suspenders that he recognises as Louis' and he _really_ questions how they ended up entangled in his things. Finally Zayn's face appears and he's thrusting grey trousers and one of Liam's nicer button-downs at him as he frog-marches them both to the bathroom with a "You've got twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes till what?" Liam asks, but he hears nothing in return.

He showers and dresses anyway, taking no real effort with his hair and only tidying the fuzz he's let grow on his face since Christmas. He's putting on his shoes when he hears another voice and chuckles when he realises it's Niall. He wanders out into the living room to find Niall and Zayn both looking a lot more dressed up than he is. Niall greets him with a hug and then Zayn's handing him a beer that he must have brought because Liam cleared out his fridge before heading to his parents' and hadn't got out to buy more booze since he returned. Even he knows that drinking Harry away isn't going to work and his body won't thank him for it. And on top of that, he's planned to have an early night and sleep his way into the New Year. Partyboy Payne he is not.

Obviously, staying home is no longer a choice.

"Come on, mate, down that and we can get on our way," Niall says, clinking his own half-empty bottle with Liam's.

"Way? Where and why?" Liam asks, his eyes flicking between Niall, who is bopping his head to some familiar tune coming from Liam's stereo, and Zayn who is tapping away on his phone, a half-smirk gracing his face.

"All in good time, Li," Zayn answers eventually, "but we need to go now so, drink up!"

Liam does with crows of encouragement from Niall and Zayn smiling at him. "Done," he says. He licks his lips because he hasn't knocked back a whole bottle like that for years (discounting his _champion_ drinking effort at the engagement party), and definitely not on the empty stomach he has today. "Now tell me."

Niall rolls his eyes and hands Liam another. "Daddy never could handle a surprise, could he?"

Liam cuffs Niall on the arm and Zayn picks up his coat from where he draped it over one of Liam's dining chairs. "Party. Can't have you sitting around here any longer; time to come out and play, Li."

The concern Liam has about who might be at any party the three of them are to attend must cross his face but he's calmed the minute Niall wraps an arm around his neck, pulling him down slightly to whisper, "Only us."

Liam doesn't know whether to be thankful that his friends know him well enough to understand why he hesitated or upset that even Niall is aware of why he did. Has Liam really been transparent to everyone who wasn't actually involved in a relationship-that-never-was?

Zayn is staring at him again and Liam decides to take this offering for what it is. He pushes aside any lingering doubt about his ability to move on from how fucked it has all become and leans into Niall's touch. "This wouldn't happen to be a certain party by a certain producer of ours that a certain female pop star would also be attending, would it?"

Zayn's cheeks pink up before he turns away, headed for the door, and Liam smiles as Niall looks between them both. "What girl, now? Why am I always the last to know?"

Liam takes the night for what it is—an opportunity to rejoin the land of the living, so to speak—and finds himself having a right old time as the night wears on. By midnight he's mingled with the crowd and had enough drinks to be socially lubricated, and he's nearly forgotten all about Harry and Louis and the wedding and all that went on at the engagement party and his part in all of it. Nearly, but then one of the girls he's dancing with asks him if he's _that_ Liam—the one who's best friends with Harry Styles—and all the bright that had begun to fill his being pops like a balloon and he finds himself in a corner, with a bottle of vodka he commandeered from the bar as his only companion. It's even worse when the clock strikes midnight and everyone around him is paired up or swaying and singing Auld Lang Syne —well, what passes for singing with everyone this drunk—and exactly three minutes later his phone buzzes and it's a message from Harry.

Liam's stomach flip-flops as he opens it, only to curse himself for having even an inkling of hope because it's obviously a mass message sent out to all of Harry's contacts wishing everyone a fantastic year ahead.

_Love Boobear and Babycakes._

Liam just manages to throw up into the potted plant on his left before making a fool of himself completely.

:::

He gets a little better with each day. Sometimes it's not till lunch that he remembers that the wedding is only weeks away now. If he's lucky, he gets all the way to dinner without a single thought about Harry and everything that once was, and those are the days that are the best. Zayn has decided it's his job to keep Liam occupied for all the rest of the hours when Liam isn't asleep. He forces Liam out of the house and to different parties and clubs so often that Liam only remembers being this bloody social back when the band had first formed. Niall's around, too—as in always, because he's staying with Liam until after the wedding. He arrived late one night bag in hand with a wounded-puppy look that Liam couldn't say no to, given the circumstances.

Zayn might have been quiet in front of the cameras or even in general, but he was the complete opposite when it came to fucking, and it just so happened that the pop star he'd been so interested in was in the country until February. And by in the country, I mean mostly at Zayn's and on every surface imaginable.

So it's the three of them more often than not, and when it has to be all five it gets a lot easier than it ever was before. Zayn swears he hasn't told Niall everything, but Niall seems to be just as eager as Zayn is to keep Liam and Harry separated. They both do nearly everything in their power to keep Liam occupied, and he's grateful. Really. But it's kind of suffocating all the same. He is a grown man and he can look after himself. For the most part.

It's not like they really have to do too much to put Liam out of harm's way. It's almost as if Harry is avoiding him, too, with most of their communication going through Louis or the other two lads. On the one occasion when they are in the same room alone, it's the last suit fitting. Louis and Niall have gone in the back with the tailor and Zayn has taken the opportunity to pop out for a smoke. Harry doesn't meet Liam's eye once. It's awkward and silent and Liam's had enough of this. He's wallowed in self-pity, rested in the safety of his shattered heart, but this is _Harry_ and he's his friend, and Liam misses that most of all.

"So Zayn has it pretty bad for this bird," he starts, and Harry's head jerks up from where he'd obviously been having a staring contest with the floor.

Liam wills his nerves to settle. Finally being on the receiving end of a look from Harry has him realising how green and—well, beautiful—Harry's eyes truly are. Harry looks tired; new lines mar the corners of his lips and a furrow is forming between his brows. Harry blinks and licks his lips and Liam kicks himself internally because maybe Harry _doesn't_ want to even be on speaking terms with him. Fuck, maybe when this wedding shit is all over there won't even be a band because Liam can't think of anywhere two of the members didn't even _look_ at each other.

Harry clears his throat. "Caught them going at it in our downstairs bath the other night."  
Liam smiles because, well, it's Harry talking to him. Harry could talk about dust in detail right now and Liam would be on the edge of his seat, rapt with interest.

"You think that's bad, did Niall tell you about our meeting with Simon and what was happening on his desk last week?"

Harry smirks and nods and that's it—something as simple as taking the piss out of Zayn and his sexcapades and everything is back to normal. Mostly. They still don't spend time together like they used to and there are moments where Harry just breathes in and Liam thinks he's on the verge of talking about something more, but then Louis will walk in or Zayn will interrupt and it's over. Liam certainly doesn't want to discuss anything about what he feels— _felt_ —for Harry, and he doesn't want to hear Harry apologise for it being one-sided or for leading Liam on. It would just be a reminder of how Liam let his feelings get out of control, and he can't— _won't_ —do that again.

It's still hard to be around the bright and sparkly happy that Louis is with Harry, so Liam finds as many outs as he can without raising too many red flags over his absence. He begs out of the rehearsal dinner with a feigned tummy bug; really, what's there to know apart from walk down the aisle, smile like he means it, and stand on Harry's left? The stag do becomes another matter altogether. There's no way Liam can't attend without it going unnoticed. He even checks his passport three times to make sure it's not going to go out of date before they leave, even though he knows perfectly well it's only just been renewed. He even tries talking to Dan to see if there's anything he can help out on, work with—fuck, even something as simple as hanging out would do. But no, Louis invited Dan, didn't he, thereby cutting off that route.

It's one Friday afternoon that they head off to Amsterdam for the weekend, an idea Harry picked up from Tom Fletcher's wedding years before, and how much fun the lads had had there. They relax in relative anonymity, hitting a bunch of shady bars and places where there are more male strippers than female—they do have to cater for all their mates' tastes. Liam enjoys himself. It's hard not to, with everyone so buoyant and the liquor flowing. (For someone who never used to drink, always the one to stay sober in case anything goes tits up, he's been quite the opposite of late; so he takes this opportunity to return to his old ways.)

Mostly, Liam's able to ignore Harry. There are ten of them this trip, and with Zayn and Dan his constant companions the first night, it's not so bad. The second night Liam isn't drinking because Zayn and Niall both gave him a look when he even mentioned having a beer, especially after how he was with the vodka at New Years, so he doesn't touch a drop. Everyone else does, and it's only when Harry falls into the booth beside Liam that he realises with a quick look around the room that Dan and Zayn aren't there. It's not a surprise really; this club is definitely devoid of females. Harry leans his head on Liam's shoulder and grabs at Liam's hand on the table, bringing it between them and twining their fingers together. Liam says nothing, just watches and tries not to flinch or do anything that would make Harry pull away. It's nice, after all this estrangement that's existed between them since the engagement party or even before, to have something so normal between them. Harry lifts Liam's arm up over his head and slides his body in closer as he wraps Liam's arm around his shoulders. Liam does freeze a little then, his heart giving a quick double thump because _this_ was old Liam and Harry.

The kind that existed before anything was said at all.

"Harry," Liam starts, with every good intention of pulling back to find distance. But then Harry sits up a little and Liam can see his eyes flicker with light and shadow as the club's strobe lights dance about them.

Harry blinks and licks his lips and leans in close, the tip of his nose brushing Liam's before his lips skim across Liam's cheek, and then Liam can feel Harry's breath, warm and vodka-fuelled against his neck.

"Fucking love you, Li. So glad you came. So glad you're here," Harry says, and it must be how close he is that lets Liam hear. The music is loud and the crowd on par if not louder, and Liam doesn't know what to do with this. Harry's obviously drunk—has been since the second bar they nearly crawled into, where he and Lou did body shots off a variety of different men and women.

Harry's free hand comes up and grips Liam's chin, turning his face so their eyes meet again. "I've missed you. Missed you more than I thought. Don't leave me again, Liam. It hurts."

Christ, his stare is so sincere, his hold on Liam so much more than the physical that Liam can feel the box inside his chest, the one marked ' _Harry'_ and ' _Do not open'_ start to bounce and the cardboard begin to tear. "I—" he starts, and then stops because Harry's fingers on his cheek are grazing up his jaw and then sliding into his hair, forcing Liam to drop his head further and Harry is _so_ close.

"I never really understood that, you know? You're—you're my Liam," Harry says with a shrug.

Liam swallows heavily as Harry snuggles in, lifting his legs somehow to rest over Liam's thighs. He shifts again and now he is virtually on Liam's lap, his arm low enough that their hands sit above Harry's hip, and this—this isn't what he signed up for, coming on this bloody trip. Harry's giving him mixed signals again and he can't. Liam can't go through with any of this if Harry's still going to behave like this, using Liam as his personal— _fuck_ —cuddle buddy or whatever this is, because it hurts and he just—he can _not_ do this again.

Fortunately—well, for some—a commotion starts on the other side of the club, and it's Niall and his Irish temper is flaring. Liam can hear some sort of shouting, mostly different forms of very creative swearing, and then Paul is there and the bouncers point towards the door. Liam uses the opportunity to help out a friend in need and untangles himself from Harry's arms using rescuing Niall as an excuse. He's nearly free and clear, too, when Harry squeezes their fingers together and Liam turns back, not even realising that he'd not let Harry go.

"You're a good man, Payne," Harry says, his face completely sombre, and there's a sadness in his eyes, just around the corners, that Liam doesn't understand. He lets Harry go and slips through the crowd toward the door, catching Niall and Paul outside and taking over from the latter with the offer to take Niall back to the hotel.

The rest of their stay is uneventful, and Liam's predictions of awkward silences and frosty receptions with Harry the next morning are all for nothing. Instead, Liam finds himself attacked by a chipper Harry ruffling his hair and pinching toast off his plate. It's all so completely normal that Liam has to wonder if the past few months were just in his head.

:::

A week out from the wedding Liam gets a phone call in the dead of night. He answers without looking at who it is—generally, he doesn't look when someone calls after midnight because he always thinks the worst. As the phone buzzes noisily on his bedside table he leans over and picks it up, bringing it to his face and trying to open his eyes as little as possible in hopes of a chance to return to sleep if this isn't an emergency and is more Zayn and his well-practiced drunk-dials.

"Hey, hello?" he manages through a yawn.

"I love him, you know." And Liam has to open his eyes now because that was the strangest form of greeting ever.

"What?" he asks, and there's a loud sigh on the other end, like Liam is meant to be understanding what the hell is being said or hinted at.

"I just wanted you to know. I do. I always have. Even when it's shit I do, and I love you, too, but it's different. You're different."

Liam blinks and rubs at his eyes because Harry isn't making any sense at all. He rolls to his side, propping himself up on his elbow and noting that it's way later than the midnight he thought it was, the dim green lights on his alarm saying closer to four.

"Not a bad different, just different, you know? It's like, I need you for stuff, so much stuff, and then there's this part of me that just wants things to be different, but it's not and it can't be. Because, because—"

Liam waits and holds his breath because it's almost as if Harry is trying to work something out while on the phone, as if talking whatever it is through with Liam will sort it out in his own mind. Liam waits and he listens as the silence after the "because" drags on and on.

"Why can't it just be like it was before, you know? But I love him. I do. I do. And I love you and him and then everything, it's just—it's hard."

Liam waits for Harry to say more but he doesn't, so Liam can only say "Okay," because really he's hardly processing any of this in the in-between state of dog-tired and still asleep and the why of Harry's call.

Harry sighs again—or maybe yawns, Liam can't tell. "I just—I thought you should know."

"Okay."

"I love him and I want this, and—yeah," Harry finishes, and Liam has nothing else to say because what _can_ he say to that?

"Okay."

"Okay," Harry says in return, and then there's silence and Liam is half asleep again, forgetting the phone is in his hand when Harry gives an even more emphatic "Okay," and ends the call.

Liam puts the phone back and snuggles under his covers. Later in the morning, as he's making a fry-up for himself and Niall, Niall mentions Harry having stayed home when he and Louis went out the night before. That's when Liam remembers the phone call.

The "okays" that verged on Harry trying to convince himself of something more than anything else.

The weird profession to love Louis and Liam but it being different—which, yes, Mister Styles, Liam has realised this on his own quite a lot now what with every time he's put his heart on the line for Harry and Harry has kept on choosing Louis.

Liam's had enough of being second choice, thank you very much, and he won't be letting Harry drag him into this—whatever it is—again.

So in spite of every part of him that says he should explore what Harry means and dig and prod and push just in case—he doesn't.

:::

Before Liam knows it, it's the night before the wedding and he's at home, not staring at his car keys and thinking about leaving town. He's definitely not twitchy at the thought of just talking to Harry once more because he has—because he laid everything bare for Harry that night in the carpark and nothing changed, and deep down he knows nothing will. Liam has resigned himself to the fact that in less than twenty-four hours he'll be standing at the front of the church watching as the only man he's ever loved vows to stay with someone else for the rest of his life. It hurts—but what doesn't these days?—and he rubs at the permanent ache in his chest as if the touch will heal any of the ache there.

His phone buzzes and it's Louis reminding Liam _again_ of what time to pick up Harry. Liam shakes his head but sends him a quick reassuring message back. He'll pick Harry up at the appointed time and have him dressed and ready and at the church—because of course they have to have a church. If Liam's honest, it's not a ridiculous affair; it's actually rather tasteful, but there's more Lou in the obvious decision-making than Harry. But this _is_ Harry; he'll agree to most things to keep someone happy. Especially Louis.

Liam throws himself on the sofa after putting in the first season of The In-Betweeners. He promised Niall he'd wait till he got back with dinner to start their marathon watch, but he figures rewatching the extras isn't cheating. Exactly. They've all watched these episodes so many times that all five of them can virtually speak every line word for word. This type of mind-numbing viewing is perfect, just what Liam needs tonight. To shut out everything and anything to do with his heart and how tomorrow it'll be truly smashed beyond repair. He can't think about how Harry is spending his last night before becoming Louis' forever. Louis is at Zayn's and Harry is supposed to be having a quiet night with Gemma and her husband before turning in. Liam quashes any thoughts of how he's going to make it through the ceremony and then every moment of Harry and Lou's lives their lives together, Liam continuing to be nothing more than just a friend. He can't afford to let his mind slip to how what Louis is going to have is something Liam wants, something he _wanted_ with Harry so much that the thought of tomorrow makes his stomach turn.

He tosses and turns a few times on the sofa until the buzzer on the door announces that Niall is on his way up. Liam meets him—well, what is mostly the outline of Niall behind a stack of containers so high it's as if Niall has bought the entire menu. Which in reality is entirely possible. Dinner is a quiet affair. Liam tries to keep up his side of the conversation but his mind keeps drifting to what tomorrow is, and it puts him off his food within a few mouthfuls. Niall notices with a raised brow but shrugs it off, happy enough to eat Liam's share. They stay up far later than they probably should, and it's not until Liam is picking up the now empty containers and the few beers Niall polished off that he realises Niall is asking him something as he heads toward the kitchen.

He puts the last container in the garbage bag he's holding and follows Niall. "Sorry, mate?" he asks, finding Niall with his head in the refrigerator.

There's a garbled response and then Niall appears, pickle in hand and chewing the top off as he stares at Liam. "I said," he chews some more, then swallows, "I said, I wondered if you thought they were doing the right thing?"

Liam knots the bag and puts it in the cupboard beside the bin, deciding to take it out later in the morning. "Who? Zayn and what's-her-face? As long as Zayn is happy, you know—" Liam stops because Niall is giving him a look with his head tilted to the side as he chews off another chunk of pickle.

"No, Harry and Lou."

" _Oh?_ Oh." Liam stops because obviously the part of the night when they'd been laughing over Zayn and his incredi-crush on this bird had been over for a lot longer than he'd thought, and they'd moved on. "Oh. I don't know," he says. "Bit late now, isn't it?" Liam turns away from Niall then, tipping the last of the beer down the sink so Niall won't have to see the " _N_ _o, it's not right at all, Harry should be mine_ " thoughts that are so clear they're probably written across his face.

Niall doesn't stop there, though. Liam hears him crunch more pickle before speaking around it in his mouth. "They're always fighting, then Haz turned Lou down that first time he asked, and I know for a fact that Lou wasn't living in their house for that year we had off before touring. Did you—Liam, I know I'm not the one you usually talk to about this, but—"

They weren't living together then? Liam hadn't known; he'd holed himself up in the cottage up north for most of that year off and spent the other half travelling around parts of Europe with Zayn. Harry had never mentioned anything about it; then again, they hadn't really kept in contact because Liam had been mostly out of reach. Would it have made a difference if he had? Would it change anything now? It was in the past, and obviously Harry would have known and taken it into consideration with all that Liam had revealed. Liam says nothing; even though the bottle in his hands was empty a while ago, he still doesn't move from the sink.

The pause between what Niall had said and what he says now must have been broken by him swallowing, because when he speaks again it's a lot clearer. "—you did finally tell him how you feel, didn't you? I mean, that's why it's been weird with you and Harry for most of this year, right?"

Liam bites his lip because he doesn't know what to say to this. He always knew that Niall was perceptive and didn't say as much as he could have about a lot of things—always keeping information close to his chest, especially when it came to knowledge on each of his bandmates. He was the first to find out about Harry and Louis when he accidentally walked in on them on the X-Factor tour bus, and he kept that hush-hush until years later when the whole band were being interviewed after Harry and Louis came out.

"Because if you didn't, and you'd been ignoring it all, mate—I'd hate to be in your fucking shoes tomorrow."

Liam turns the tap on and washes out the bottles, even though he doesn't usually do this. It's just to block out Niall and the crack in Liam's chest he thought he'd glued shut to deal with everything to come. His eyes start to sting and it _hurts_ , because if even Niall can see it, if everyone but Harry can see what Liam means to him, then it's even more painful that Harry didn't. It isn't fair that Harry's made the wrong decision because he'll never know how much Liam cares for him, never know the difference between what Harry thinks he has with Louis and what he could have with Liam, and it's not fair. It's nowhere near fair, but Liam's done all he can.

"Harry's at home now, you know," Niall says, and Liam can feel his friend's hand rest on top of his shoulder, grasping tight.

"I do, and I did, and Harry made his choice, Ni." Liam can't help how short the tone of his voice is and how he shrugs out of Niall's concerned touch. He can't talk about this any more, can't think about it any more because "I'm—I'm going to bed. See you in the morning, yeah?" Liam walks off before anything further can be said. He just can't be thinking about what-ifs any more. He's done.

He wakes to his alarm blaring and it takes him a good while to find the energy to get up and shut it off before readying himself for the day ahead. He feels like he's moving in slow motion, submerged in a tank of goo that seems to make every step take forever, and his heart feels like it takes that little bit longer between beats. Niall is still asleep and Liam leaves him there in the spare room. He probably should attempt to wake the poor sod, but he and Harry are supposed to come back here to get the suits before they all drive out to Cheshire anyway, so it's no real problem to let Ni have a bit of a lie-in. Plus if he's truthful with himself, even if it hurts, Liam wants to spend a few minutes with Harry just on his own, a last goodbye to all that was ever between them as Harry moves on into a future where Liam can't follow.

Liam takes the long way to Harry and Lou's place; he needs the extra time to get his "game face" ready and prepare his best man role for the remainder of the day. He uses the garage code that Harry gave him to get in, waving and smiling at the press who are lined up outside already in hopes of catching every movement of one half of the happy couple. It pisses Liam off a little, but it's just another of those times when he's reminded of just what his life is and that a wedding for any of them will never be a private affair. It all goes quiet once the garage door is down and Liam turns the motor off. The sound of the car door closing echoes around him as Liam notes Harry's car is missing; he probably had too much to drink with Gemma and got a cab home.

He breathes in deeply, a steadying moment before entering the house and calling out to Harry as he steps into the hall. It's quiet; Harry's probably still asleep, much like Niall was at Liam's, so he heads upstairs and straight for the bedroom. The door is closed and Liam knocks loudly. "Wakey, wakey, sunshine!" he calls out, because even though it's only Harry in there, it still feels like he'd be encroaching on Lou's space if he went in unannounced. There's no sound from the other side so he tries again, knocking a little more fiercely and using Harry's name. There's nothing again, and while Harry is a deep sleeper, his alarm should have woken him by now (Liam knows that Louis set it for three consecutive times), so he shouldn't be _that_ dead to the world.

Liam rolls his eyes with a quiet "Bloody Haz," and opens the door only to find the bed still made. There's no Harry, and there's no sign that he's been in here, either. Liam calls out again, backing out into the hallway he's mostly standing in, and it's when his voice echoes that fear strikes its way through his heart and everything chills. He walks in, checking the bath and walk-in-robe, and sees there are clothes missing, if the empty hangers are anything to go by. Not that this means anything, because Louis packs like the world will end if he doesn't have _that_ particular shirt, and Liam knows they're leaving for their honeymoon straight after the reception tonight, so there's one explanation. It's hard to tell if he should be worried, yet there's this little niggling _thing_ in the back of his head that says "Yes, yes, you should be."

He walks back out and checks all the rooms before descending the stairs, still calling Harry's name. Nothing. The house is so empty and so quiet he can hear the bloody clock ticking in the kitchen, and it's in there that he finds some sort of evidence that Harry has at least been in the house within the last twenty-four hours. There's a half cup of tea sitting on the counter, and the milk bottle beside it has a pool of condensation forming around its base. The water has spread onto the pad of paper lying beside it and Liam doesn't know whether to be relieved or upset when, upon stepping closer, he recognises the handwriting as Harry's. Parts of the bottom are blurred completely from water damage, but he can still make out enough to make his heart still its beating and his stomach fall down past his knees. His hand shakes as he lifts up the paper, and he can't help the soft "Fuck" that falls from his lips.  
 _  
"I can't do this_ _any more. I need some space to clear my head. Tell Louis it's all my fault. I'm so sorry, Liam."_

Liam doesn't know what's worse, the fact that he now has to go and explain to all their families that the wedding is off or that he gets to be the one to break the news to Louis. Or why it is exactly that Harry is apologising to him more than anyone else.

Louis reacts in the exact opposite way from what Liam expects. He is quiet and subdued and Liam actually asks him twice if he heard. It's on the third time he opens his mouth to question Louis that Louis turns his blue eyes, now cold like ice, upon Liam. His words are sharp as a whip, cutting Liam to the core.

"I'm perfectly fine handling this, Liam. I think you've done enough, don't you?" He's off out the front of Zayn's flat then. Liam can only listen, still reeling that Louis has virtually laid the blame for this at _his_ feet, as Louis informs all and sundry in the calmest voice possible that there will be no wedding, but as the reception was paid and catered for by management, even the paps are welcome to come and enjoy it.

Louis leaves not long after that, his mother behind the wheel of his car, and Zayn is still just staring at Liam and asking what the fuck happened.

"I don't know," Liam answers truthfully. "I don't know."  
 **  
**


	5. part five

**[part five]**

Looking back on that first day, it wasn't as hard as they had thought it would be. In the beginning, hours after Louis' mum has taken him home and management offers to handle dismantling the wedding, Liam can't stop staring at his phone. They all try calling Harry, from their phones, from friends' phones. Niall even manages to sneak down to a bloody pay phone and . . . nothing. Harry's voicemail gets awfully tiring after the first ten repetitions. At one hundred, Liam doesn't even bother to listen just to hear Harry's stupid voice. (If he wants that now, he watches the tons of videos of _just_ Harry on YouTube). In the beginning, Gemma swears she knows nothing—swears blind that she has no idea what her little brother is up to—but once management begin to talk of getting the police involved, she 'fesses up.

How bloody rockstar does Harry want to be, spouting that he needs to "go find himself and will be in touch"?

It pisses management off no end; but the band is still insanely popular, maybe even more so after the "non wedding," so they eventually calm down. They postpone the album release for a year and the official story becomes that the band are taking an extended break. The band are still on contract, they're still a band, and it's just a little extra time off. Really. No one actually believes it—well, not the fans, anyway. Harry's disappearance and leaving Louis jilted at the altar causes a _lot_ of hate to be thrown his way for the first month. Then it all changes because, well.

Louis loses it.

Instead of being the heartbroken half of Larry Stylinson left in the public eye, what they get is the exact opposite. He won't talk to Liam. Won't look at him when the band are called in to talk things over with Simon. And he flat-out ignores every one of Liam's phone calls and texts. Emails go unanswered, and when Liam shows up on Jay's door to just _explain_ , he's turned away. Liam would be more upset, but the fact is that for two weeks Louis is quiet, holed up with his family at his mum's, and speaks to _no one_. When the paparazzi just won't leave him alone there, he leaves in the dark of night only to reappear on a sunny beach in Majorca on his own.

He doesn't stay alone for long, however. In another week the pictures start appearing. The rumour mills are running over with accusations of the break-up being more to do with Louis, who, it turns out, is shagging anything that moves, if the photos and exclusive interviews with one-night-stands are anything to go by. The paps even get a shot of Louis snorting something white from the well-toned stomach of some pretty boy and doing body shots from a row of what everyone hopes are girls of age—and that's when management step in.

Louis does a three-month stint in a very cushy "well-being" unit in the middle of the desert in America for "exhaustion and emotional trauma" and the tide turns in the social media again, from vitriol spewed at Louis to vilifying Harry once more for forcing his ex to deal with his demons through drugs. It's fucked up. The whole situation is fucked up, and Liam doesn't know what to do or who to talk to, because Louis certainly isn't talking to him, and as for Harry . . . .

He doesn't even like to think about Harry any more. But he does. Morning, noon, and night. Nights are the worst, because even in his dreams he can't escape his friend, and that hurts more than he thought possible.

Liam finally convinces or annoys Gemma into submission around the six-month mark to give him some clue just as to Harry's well-being, if not his whereabouts. Liam meets up with Gemma and her husband for lunch while he's conveniently "passing through". They both know he's not, but nothing is said all the same. They talk about normal things like the current weather and who was robbed in the previous night's football, and it's lovely. After her husband leaves to make the tea and cake, Gemma finally relents and brings out a stack of postcards, laying them on the table in front of Liam. She slides her fingertips down the side of his cheek, cupping his jaw and tilting his head so her eyes—so similar yet different to Harry's own—stare straight into his.

"He'll come back to you when it's time."

And then she's gone and Liam doesn't know if he wants to look at the things, honestly, because he'd just assumed Gemma was getting calls, not—not fucking notes. The pile is quite thick, it stands a good inch or two with a bright red ribbon tied around it ending in a bow. He can't help but notice the first is a picture of what looks like snow and nothing else. It's intriguing, to say the least, and it's what finally gets him to pick up the pile, holding it close to his heart. Liam makes his goodbyes quick and Gemma smiles that half-smile of hers as Liam gently places the stack on his passenger seat before driving away. He _doesn't_ stare at it while he drives as fast as possible back home. He _doesn't_ rest his head on his hands as he sits and glares at it when he gets in. He does leave it sitting on the coffee table for the remainder of the week, sparing it a glance whenever he walks through the room, his fingers itching with the temptation to unwind the bow and see what's inside.

It takes him another week to give in. When he does, it's late at night and he's feeling lonely because he's just returned from dinner with Zayn and Niall and their "women". Even Dan had dropped in with his long-term partner. It sucks being literally the seventh wheel, and it really doesn't help at all when Dan's best friend just _happens_ to walk past—a best friend who, funnily enough, is into men and takes a shine to Liam, if the amount of time he spends playing with Liam's longer, shaggy locks is anything to go by. Or how he somehow manages to slip his number, email, and Twitter handle into Liam's pocket when Liam leaves the table to hit the loo. The lads all give Liam a "look" when he mentions heading home for the night, one filled with that particular brand of " _Oh_ , Liam" that has inflection in all the right places to make Liam feel as if he is being pitied, from their eyebrow flexes alone.

They don't get it. Liam doesn't want to be set up with anyone. He doesn't want to accidentally find someone interesting and maybe go out on a date or five and then find himself in a relationship he isn't even looking for. How can he expect anyone to open their heart to him when—until Harry comes back, if Harry comes back—Liam's heart isn't open to anyone else at all. Maybe when Harry returns they can finally talk like adults and Liam can finally move on. There has been so much said between them in the past year, but it isn't enough, is definitely not enough after Harry named Liam in his goodbye letter, and they certainly haven't discussed everything that needs to be said. Their relationship and the future of even a friendship between them relies on the details, and while Harry is gone Liam is effectively stuck in limbo.

Which is why, wanting to understand even a little of what is going on in Harry's head and feeling like he needs to be doing _something_ productive, he finally pulls on the ends of the ribbon and the pile of cards falls apart.

The first card he finds is the same one he saw on the top of the pile at Gemma's. It says in bright green lettering "Greetings from Alaska!" and Liam finds himself frowning because that's not exactly some place he can imagine Harry wanting to visit. He checks the date on the back and finds it was sent about four days after the wedding-that-wasn't. This intrigues him further, and his heart jumps into his throat with the first line. He can't stop reading.  
 _  
"I'm so sorry. I know I've fucked it all up and I've left you and Liam to deal with it all and I'm sorry, so sorry. I just couldn't do it, Gem. I couldn't look at Louis_ _any more and see the things that were wrong between us and be able to turn around and see exactly what I wanted in someone else. So much has gone on that you don't know about and it's fucked with my head. I'm fucked in the head. I just need some space. Love, Harry."_

That was the first one that ripped Liam apart, but it wasn't the last. There were cards from all over the world—Spain, Africa, Australia, Canada, Greenland, Russia—small towns and cities, and Liam has to wonder how Harry can _possibly_ hide in them all. He's always loved his beanies, so that's out, and it's not like his face isn't well known. The lads all know of posts on the internet that are dedicated to different body parts, Harry's lips and eyelashes especially being prominent over the years. Harry has always been a master charmer, though, so that probably has something to do with it. The cards are filled with everything and nothing. Some have just a date and a time, some have thoughts of their childhood and Harry's mum, some are nearly haikus in their strange cadence, and others seem to be words that have fallen straight from Harry's thoughts to the page.

It's strange, but Liam finds it helpful—a comfort in the chaos—and he doesn't even think about what time it is or whatever as he shoots Gemma off a quick thank-you text.

She must not have minded, because the next day he gets a package delivered and there are more postcards—and not just a few. A lot. Apparently Gemma had been testing him and he'd passed—or something like that. Liam reads each and every one over and over, and all the new ones that Gemma sends on as the weeks slowly turn into months. And then it's getting towards a year and Harry still hasn't mentioned coming home.

Liam and Louis finally talk a few weeks before Christmas. Management pretty much give them a warning that there is a charity gig coming up that the band _will_ perform for—one man down or not. Louis apologises the moment the door closes between them and Liam says it back. They talk a little of how their lives currently are, and it's just as something that borders on easy conversation fills between them that Louis stops and stares at Liam and it's a _hard_ look, one that Liam rarely sees on his bandmate, ever.

It stops Liam in his tracks and he can only nod as Louis says, "I still blame you, but not for everything. He was the one who left and I acted like it was a surprise, but really it wasn't. He'd been pulling away and pulling away, and we'd argued more and I put it all down to stress about the wedding. And then he talked about you all the time and I ignored it. He'd always gone to you when things were strained between us and I'd always wondered, but—I guess I never really saw how you felt, too."

Liam starts to object, but Louis just shushes him and continues. "Look, I knew about you fucking Harry. It's played in my head for years after I figured out exactly why it was you were stretched out on our sofa. You didn't clean up that well and he _smelled_ like you when I crawled into bed with him that morning. I'm not stupid, either. I know why you've pulled away from us all over the years and I could see how you looked at him—but he looked at you, too, and I always tugged him closer when he did. Always thought I'd be enough. But I guess I wasn't. I guess we weren't." He laughs and it's dry and Louis's not looking at Liam now. Liam can still see the wet path a single tear makes on its way down Louis' cheek before he takes a deep shuddering breath, his smile quirked up on one side, and Liam can only reach over and wipe the mark off with his thumb, and then he and Louis are pressing their foreheads together.

It's the first time that Liam can remember himself instigating a touch with Louis in years.

Things aren't perfect between them after that—but they're better. The band play at the Christmas thing Simon wants them to and there is mention of looking at the album and re-figuring vocals. They all balk at it but they _are_ under contract and they _are_ obligated to put an album out within the next eight months.

So when Liam gets a call to come into the office early one Tuesday morning, he's going over the speech he and the boys have agreed on about why they just need a little more time. What he's not prepared for when the double doors open is to see the rest of the band already there, Louis with his arms crossed and curled in over himself like the wind has been completely taken out of his sails. It's worrying, and as Liam's eyes roam over to Zayn he finds him the complete opposite, his whole body radiating tension. And then there's Niall, who is chewing at his fingers, and then some near bald bloke with a nicely trimmed four- or five-day growth on his cheeks that Liam kind of recognises.

Then the near bald lad in the faded Beatles shirt turns and green eyes are staring back at Liam as he feels everything around him slow to a standstill.

"Hello," the man says with a reluctant wave of long, tanned fingers, and Liam blinks and blinks, waiting for the image to distort and go to normal because, because.

It's Harry.

:::

It's like time sort of speeds up, something you wouldn't expect in this case, but it does. He remembers coming in and seeing the others in their own states of shock and then . . . and then Harry.

Harry speaks and his voice is the same, even if it's coming out of a mouth hidden by whiskers and from a man who constantly brushes his hand over his head, as if he's rubbing over phantom curls. Liam mostly picks up on what Harry is saying. He apologises to management and the label for fucking off without a word, says he understands completely if he has to pay for damages of any sort—failed appearances, cancelled concerts, etc. Then he's tilting his head to the side, acknowledging the rest of the group and saying he wants to apologise to all of them, too, that it wasn't fair to just walk out on them. That he and Louis talked earlier and they've worked things out. That it's not perfect, nor does he expect it to be, but they've come to a place where they can still be in a band together even if their relationship is no more.

There's more stuff—the others ask a few questions about where he's been and what he's been doing and it's strange the few times Liam finds his lips quirking up or a few lines from Harry's cards coming to mind as he talks about places he's visited, because he's the only one who knows of Harry's whereabouts—well, besides Gemma. Maybe he should have opened up to the others about the cards; he had thought about it, nearly even did a few times, but then something would stop him and he wouldn't. It wasn't that he was hiding what he knew from them, it was more that it was private. The notes _were_ all supposed to be for Gemma, after all, so in a way he was protecting their sibling privacy. At least that's what he liked to tell himself every time he had a chance to say something but didn't.

Then there are a few more things from Simon and the other men in suits that sit on the other side of the room and heads are nodding and there's more near-grovelling and it's over. Everyone is standing and Harry moves to Louis first, and they hug all awkward and stiff for a moment, and then it's a little closer and Louis collapses into Harry's arms. Then Niall and Zayn join in. Liam stands up but can only watch because he honestly can't force himself to join in even if he wanted to. The group hug breaks up and then Harry's eyes are searching the room until they land on Liam. Harry's smile is that hesitant one that doesn't quite fill his face as he wanders over to where Liam is standing. Harry stops, biting at his bottom lip and with his hands hanging all awkward at his sides as he eyes Liam. "Um, all right, Li?" he mumbles, and Liam is just floored because this is some new version of Harry that reminds him so much of the sixteen-year-old boy he met at auditions, and it looks completely wrong on the twenty-five-year-old man he is now.

It shouldn't be as endearing as it is, and it cracks this thing inside of Liam that had hardened in the instant it took him to recognise that Harry was in the room. Harry licks his lips and looks at Liam through those dark eyelashes of his that haven't changed, and that's it. Liam can only nod and lean in and hug the bastard because Harry's looking at him like it's been minutes, not months or some stupid amount of time, since they'd last seen each other.

It's the most awful hug Liam's ever had in his life.

Harry smells the same, yet different. Gone is whatever trendy flavour-of-that-particular-month cologne from his skin, replaced by something woodsy and earthy and not sexy in the slightest. Not at all. He feels changed in Liam's arms—thinner but stronger at the same time, so whatever he's been doing has shifted and warped unused muscle and sinew. Then there's the scruff on his face that Liam can feel on his cheek as Harry pulls him in tight, arms wrapping around him with the odd pat thing blokes do when they don't really know what to do with their hands.

It's not as if Liam is doing much different because this is _Harry_. Harry who fucked with his head for too many years, and Harry who ran away not only from his wedding but from the relationships he had here. Harry who's broken Liam's heart so many, many times and left cryptic fucking messages in postcards that were sent to his sister but that told Liam so much more than he thought Gemma would ever find in them. Liam has so much to say, to ask, to yell maybe, but he doesn't get a word out because once Harry lets him go and Liam nearly falls back in his chair, Harry and Louis are ushered out the side door with someone from the PR team.

Now you see him, now you don't.

It's utterly surreal. Then Simon says something to them about getting back on track once all of the "Harry returns" hubbub dies down and gives them one last reprieve before the hard stuff starts back in and it's back to being _normal_ once more.

"Your holidays are nearly over, lads," he says with a thin smile, and Liam is wondering, holidays? Was that what Simon really thought they'd all thought the past year was? Oh, don't think we're worried for our friends, it's perfectly fine really that one fucks off and isn't seen or heard from and the other gets himself into such a state that rehab is needed—yeah, some holiday that.

Simon does that thing where he looks back at his computer screen, and after years of experience Liam and the others know it's their cue to leave, so they get up and walk out with a soft "Bye." Niall and Zayn are as quiet as Liam when they get into the elevator and nothing is said even as they make their way through the ground floor, and then they're in the carpark and standing there as the elevator doors close. Zayn lights up and Niall checks his phone and Liam says nothing either, just stares at the white mark on the floor that they've walked over so often now. It's kind of comforting to know some things don't change.

"So," Niall says, distracted by whatever or whoever he's texting on his phone. Zayn nods and Liam just breathes because he has no idea where to start.

"I guess he's back," Niall starts again, and Zayn just tilts his head back and blows out this steady stream of smoke.

"I guess so," says Liam, because it's honestly all he's got. There's all this _stuff_ flying around in his mind and questions he wants to ask and have answers to, but the person to get them from isn't here.

"Have you sorted everything out, then?" Niall asks finally, turning his attention on Liam as he slides his phone into his pocket.

"Me?"

Niall nods. "I just figured if he'd talked to Lou, he'd have talked to you."

Liam shakes his head. "Didn't even know he was back until I walked in the door like you lot."

He isn't sure whether he's meant to see it, but there's a second where Niall and Zayn's eyes find each other's, then it's gone. Zayn is tipping ash onto the ground with a fingertip and Niall is scratching one hand through his hair.

Nervous. They're nervous. "Did you know he was here already?" Liam asks, because there really is no other reason they'd share a look like that. And then Niall is staring at the ground and Zayn is sucking in more nicotine.

"You did. So, how long?" Liam's hands form fists at his sides, and he tries to undo the tension by forcing them to uncurl but then the other two are still silent so they curl up again. "How. Long," he asks again, and Niall is frowning and burning holes in the concrete below his feet with his stare.

"How—" Liam starts, but Zayn interrupts, throwing the last of his cigarette onto the ground before stamping it out.

"He's been here a month."

"A month."

"A month—and not really here, as such, but back in the UK—and in contact with Gemma, I know that for sure. He only spoke with Louis this week."

Liam is out and out glaring at Zayn now because he's obviously _known_ all of this and he's been out with Liam in this _month_ , quite a few times actually, and he's not said a word. Then Liam thinks about it for a moment and these sparks of conversations past that didn't really mean much at the time start bursting in his mind, and anger courses through his veins.

"Has he—he's been staying with you? He's been staying at your flat all this time and you—you never said anything? All those times you skirted around why we couldn't go back to yours and the real reason was you had fucking Harry there!" Liam spits, his voice rising at the end, and he's just so angry and betrayed and Zayn _knows_ what Harry was to him and that this is—this is huge.

"No—well, yes, he was, but only in the last week, and that's purely because he came down to talk to Louis and sort that shit out and see Simon and that. He needed some place to stay and he couldn't very well go back to their old house, could he, and yours wasn't exactly a good idea either." Zayn looks uncomfortable yet he is actually meeting Liam's eyes, which is more than can be said for Niall, who is still staring at the floor.

"And you didn't think maybe I'd like to know he was safe? That he was home? That maybe these would be important fucking factors, Zayn?"

Niall looks up then, sheepish, and nearly raises his hand. "To be fair, I didn't know until yesterday and that was purely because I couldn't get hold of you when my plane landed."

"So you knew, too? You both knew, and—no. No. Fuck this." And Liam walks off, ignoring the pleas for him to stop that end with him being called a litany of names as he gives them the finger before getting into his car. He peels out a lot faster than he should, leaving tyre marks on the floor for sure. His phone buzzes, and finally he just shuts the damn thing off and throws it into the seat behind him, and drives out into the streets and anywhere that isn't near home.

Liam drives for most of the day and into the evening. He has to turn off the radio after a bit because fucking Nick is talking to Harry and they're laughing and it's—it's just too much. He doesn't pay attention to where the car is headed, only realising too late when the street lights are on and the sun has long since gone down that he's been driving around in circles—doing laps really—right in front of Harry and Lou's house.

He hates himself for being so pitiful. It's so fucking predictable that he'd end up here of all places, because he wants answers—even if he isn't really sure he's ready to hear them. What if he's nothing to do with why Harry left when he did? What if it was purely to do with Haz and Lou, and Liam wasn't even a factor? So after he passes one last time, he turns in the opposite direction and heads home.

The next few days are filled with interviews—either the band as a whole or just them in the background appearing supportive while Harry explains himself in some detail to whatever journalists management have deemed sympathetic enough. Liam rarely speaks and he avoids Harry's stare as much as possible. It isn't hard really; he repeats the lines that management have fed them to say, as little as possible about their own thoughts and feelings. He sticks close to Zayn, who obviously feels guilty about hiding Harry for so long and takes it upon himself to be a buffer between Liam and—basically, everyone.

Liam throws himself into finishing pieces on the album with Dan, and is conveniently out of reach any time Harry has to come in. It probably looks a little ridiculous, and even Liam knows it is, but . . . he's still so angry, _so_ angry, and it's got to the stage where he isn't sure if it's just at Harry for not coming to see him when he got back, or before that, for leaving the cryptic note and letting Liam clean up his mess. Or maybe it's the lies their entire relationship has been based on—but that's mostly Liam's fault, so maybe he's hating himself—which isn't anything _too_ new. It's stupid, but.

He's just angry all the time and it's affecting everything.

Two weeks in, Harry has managed to get Liam on his own three times. Twice he's able to get out of it by himself—a faked phone call, Niall asking if anyone wants lunch. And the third—well, the third is thanks to some over-enthusiastic fangirls who "just want a photo, really quick, we're mad about you, Li!"—and who is he to deny the people who buy their music?

He can see on Harry's face the frustration at Liam's continual brush-offs, but in Liam's mind, if Harry really wanted to talk to him nothing would stand in his way. Then Liam thinks about how hypocritical that is, considering he knew where Harry was for years and never spoke a single word of what he wanted or what he felt; so he can't blame Harry for at least trying. But he's still so frustrated and hurt, and if Harry did manage to talk to him now Liam isn't sure he'd have the patience to listen to anything Harry had to say. Not to mention that the press still haven't let go of Harry and his "adventures while searching his heart for the truth," or whatever the spin is this week on his running away. Liam figures he's best left out of it for now. No matter what Harry has to say. It'll probably be a simple fucking thank you, but if there is a possibility it's something different, something more to do with how he feels about Liam, then Liam doesn't want it tainted by their past, either.

So Liam continues walking this fine line between throwing himself at Harry and begging for the truth, and avoiding Harry at all costs. As time wears on and the album gets one last polish before it's handed over to Simon and his crew for final approval, it's been just on a month. Finally the public have mostly forgotten about the "end of Larry Stylinson" and "where on earth is Harry Styles?" and all the other strange titles they had for what had gone on. The publicity agents are finished with protecting or projecting a "happy, empathetic, forgiven" image and it's all systems go for "accidentally" leaking bits of songs. Anything in the news about the band is mostly positive and getting across that both Harry and Louis are "in good places."

It's all so lovely. So wonderful. So _contrived_ that it drives Liam insane and he just wants, _needs_ , to get away from it. So he arranges with management on the sly for him to take a break. Nothing too long, just a few weeks, back in plenty of time to do some live promo work that's being lined up. Just long enough for Liam to hopefully find a way to process everything that's gone on. He packs his bags, actually remembers to slip his phone into his pocket—because that was one point management were quite set on if he wasn't going to tell them where he was going—and heads out early one morning. The drive up to his cottage is mundane in a way that is totally reassuring. There's been so much change and upheaval in his life over the past—fuck, far too long—and it's things like this that he needs right now. Monotonous gear changes, stops at the same places, and scenery that he knows like the back of his hand.

Milly is surprised to see him, then attacks him verbally (and physically really—if you can call being hit by a loaf of bread repeatedly some sort of violence) because he hasn't informed her of his impending stay. She's the one who usually goes in and spruces up the place for Liam before he arrives, airing out the cupboards and stocking the larder with fresh foods. He assures her it was spur of the moment and then proceeds to buy a ridiculous amount of food that he knows he won't eat in his short stay, but her curt nod and half-smile let him know he's forgiven. Mostly.

It's weird being here without an agenda. Liam has no idea what to do with himself after he puts everything away. He opens up the doors and windows to let in fresh air. He's made up his bed and gone through his luggage looking for one of the books Zayn had suggested to him that he was halfway through, only to realise he's left it back at his flat. There's nothing worth reading in the bookshelves—well, nothing he wants to reread—so he wanders out into the back garden, the part that looks out over the cliff and to the sea below. It's so wild here, the ocean breeze whipping one of the trees so hard that as it's grown, it's simply had to bow under pressure and nearly bends back towards the house from the constant gale blowing over the land. There are a few garden beds beside the back deck, and Liam notices they're filled with weeds. Seeing as he has no book, he thinks, why not try his hand at gardening? He's watched his dad do it over the years, it can't be that hard. Anything to keep his mind still, to keep the thoughts and questions and _everything_ at bay.

It is and it isn't difficult. Once he gets down on his knees and gazes at the mess of greens and tangled limbs and things he thinks he's got the difference between plant and weed and sets to work. It _is_ a lot harder than he thought. As the sun rises in the sky his thighs and lower back ache when he bends and reaches to pull out some stubborn prickly thing. He discarded his shirt hours ago because even though it's the end of winter, this type of physical labour is a bit much. It's not as if he's unfit—there couldn't even be a possibility of that with how often he visits the gym and runs and even swims, because when his head is underwater it's just _stroke_ and _breathe_ and _stroke_ again, repeat. Liam never realised how much he needed that _quiet_ until the band got huge and he literally couldn't be alone. Not the way he used to be. There's no time to think with fangirls screaming at you and cameras dogging your every move, so swimming became his thing to quiet everything down.

The ocean and its sounds were another reason he bought this cottage. Not that it's ever really warm enough or safe enough to go in the water here; it's the way the sea _looks_ that seems to settle his soul. Just like it is now. He sits back on his haunches, presses his hands into the hard muscle at the base of his spine, and bends his body backwards, stretching and raising his face to the sun. His eyes close and he breathes and the wind blessedly blows in his direction, the cool, salty air welcome on his heated skin until suddenly it's blocked and that red-gold wash that lit up behind his eyelids is gone, replaced with black.

"Hi."

And Liam's eyes spring open because no one, _no one_ apart from his mum and dad, know about this place and he didn't even tell _them_ he was coming here, so how the bloody hell is it that Harry Styles has found him?

**:::**

Liam falls backwards onto the grass, awkwardly landing on his hand that he didn't move in time, and he curses. Harry rushes forward then. "Shit, shit, shit, sorry, sorry!" He kneels beside Liam, who's rolled onto his side, cupping his wrist where most of the stinging pain is located. Harry reaches down to take Liam's hand, and without even meaning to Liam flinches at this barest of touches. A line forms in the middle of Harry's brow at Liam's loud "Don't!"

"Sorry," Harry says, rocking back and biting his lip. Liam sighs and closes his eyes, rolling his body up so he can rest his wrist in his lap.

"I mean, I'm okay. It's okay," Liam mutters, flexing his fingers and finding that everything still moves in the right way; probably just bruised or something.

They sit there for a minute in awkward silence, the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs and a few odd gulls becoming the soundtrack around them. Liam is just—he's just so shocked that Harry is here that he can't exactly find the right way to ask why, and it comes out more nastily than he intends.

"What are you doing here? I mean—how did you even know where I was?"

Harry runs a hand over his head—his hair has started growing out so it's a little over an inch from his scalp. His curls aren't really evident yet and Liam finds himself wondering if they'll come back at all. His heart twists a little at that, not because Harry's curls were the only reason he thought Harry was attractive, but a Harry without curls is weird now. But forever? It's unfathomable.

"Your phone."

"My phone?"

Harry's cheeks pink and he looks down, fingers plucking at a blade of grass. "Well, it's this thing in your phone really, at least I think it's in your phone. I'm not entirely sure—"

"Something _in_ my phone? Are you saying you tracked me, like some sort of anim—"

"No! Well, sort of. I mean, I didn't—really, it's in my car, but—Christ." He takes a deep breath and flicks his eyes up towards Liam before concentrating on the ground once more. "After that scare with Niall and that nutter fan who wanted to kidnap him, they put GPS things in our phones. They've never even turned them on, but I spoke to Paul about how you were avoiding me and then he said you'd gone away for a bit and . . . I don't know. ."

Liam blinks and stares because, "What?"

Harry's eyes squeeze tightly shut. "He didn't want to but I might have begged. And it's just—" His eyes open and Liam is blasted by a green he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to see. "You wouldn't _talk_ to me, and then you ran away."

Liam lets out a loud bark of laughter. "I ran away? Me?" He shakes his head because, well, this is absolutely rich coming from Harry. He stands up, picking up his discarded shirt and pulling it over his head as he enters the house, not caring if Harry follows.

He does. Liam knew he would, but it just adds to his increasingly agitated state as he hears Harry catch the back door that Liam had attempted to slam closed behind him.

"This is why we need to talk, Li. I can't—will you stop for a second, please?" The placation at the end sounds almost like an afterthought, but it does give Liam pause from where he had begun banging around in the cupboards, looking for wherever it was that Milly had hidden the mugs this time. She always moved the kitchen around once he'd finished with the cottage for each year, suiting it to her own strange needs and not Liam's. He'd always found it slightly odd yet endearing, but now it's just adding fuel to how he feels.

"I just want to _talk_ to you. Is that so bad? I've missed you, and you keep avoiding me and then you just left without a word—"

"Kind of like you did," Liam whispers, his back still turned to Harry as his grip tightens on the edge of the bench. He stares at the wood grain, the missing chunk where a knot in the wood has fallen out.

" _Yes_ ," Harry says, exasperation in his tone that Liam didn't expect. "How can I apologise to you for this if you won't even look at me?"

Liam shrugs, which isn't the most mature thing, but even having Harry this close and just speaking to him is enough to have his heart hurting with all that is unresolved between them. He wants to fix it. Wants to work out whatever it is between them so there can be some sort of healing; but at the same time he doesn't because of the what-ifs that lie heavily on the negative side. _What if_ Harry had left purely to get over Louis? _What if_ he only wants to properly apologise for leaving Liam with the aftermath of the non wedding? _What if_ he has no feelings towards Liam at all and just wants his friend back?

Liam hates the logical side of his brain right now.

"Can't you even look at me?" Harry whispers in that deep, gravely tone of his, and he sounds—he sounds like Liam's heart feels. Broken.

Liam turns, slowly, his back resting against the cupboards, and his hands return to gripping the edges of the countertop like it's the only thing holding him up, keeping him anchored.

"I just wanted to talk," Harry says. His hands are squashed into his jean pockets and he looks so—so young; the hair, the way he's licking over his lips, and how wide and sad his eyes look.

"I know, but did you think the reason I left was maybe because of that?" Liam asks, flicking his head up a little because his hair, that really he should have had cut months ago, is so long it's constantly falling into his eyes.

Harry shrugs. It's enough of a yes that neither of them say anything for a while. When Harry does speak, it's not anything Liam thought he'd start with.

"You grew your hair."

Liam raises a brow. "And you cut yours off."

A flicker of a smile plays over Harry's lips for a moment, then it's gone. "Made it easier. No one would ever have expected me to lose the curls."

Liam does smile then because it was the one thing he'd never thought about—that to hide from the public he really did just need to hack off his trademark, amongst other things.

"Tea?" he asks, because it's obvious Harry plans on staying, and really, Harry's here and he wants to talk, so why put off the inevitable?

"Yeah." Harry smiles, and it's the first proper smile Liam's seen on him since he returned, reaching right up into his eyes and crinkling the skin around them in that way Liam shouldn't find endearing but always has. "Yeah, tea would be good."

They settle themselves in the small living room. Harry having sat down on the sofa first leaves Liam with the choice of sitting beside him or on the lone armchair. He did think about it for a moment, but sat in the armchair anyway. They sit and they sigh in mutual appreciation of that first sip of a good brew and smile awkwardly, eyes flicking away fast, anywhere else but toward each other. There's this knot of tension in Liam's belly that isn't letting him enjoy his drink as much as he wants to. Then there's also a Harry Styles sitting across from him—in touching distance—and that only adds to how antsy he's feeling, as if his skin doesn't quite want to fit his body any more.

"So," Liam starts, and Harry echoes. They grin again and Harry lets loose a snicker. Liam has to bite his tongue not to do the same because it's _Harry_ and his stupid noises that come so naturally, like he never has to censor himself, ever.

Liam takes a deep breath just because he's missed this, missed the friend he had and the boy he fell in love with before he even realised what that feeling was. This is still someone who tangles up his emotions with a look, and is completely oblivious to that fact.

"You wanted to talk," Liam says, and Harry nods. He leans forward to put his cup on the one space left on the coffee table that isn't covered with books Liam discarded earlier in his search for something to do.

"I do. I—I actually have no idea how to start this," Harry says, leaning back into his seat and pushing up the arms on his soft-looking woollen jumper. It's an old one that Liam vaguely recognises as one of the many the band all shared during one winter tour of Europe. When Harry sits up properly Liam can see the tiny stain of orangey-red pasta sauce that Niall made on the collar, the burn mark on the right sleeve from when Louis knocked into Zayn and he dropped his cigarette. It's little pieces of all of them and it's nice until Liam remembers how Harry would constantly slide his hands under it and around Liam's waist, hugging him from behind whenever Liam was wearing it.

"You look good," he says with a smile, and it's just this side of flirtatious—well, the smile that always had Liam going weak in the knees, and Liam can't help what leaves his mouth next.

"I look good? I guess should say thank you to that? Say you're not too bad yourself?" Anger is back again and tainting his words, and his hand shakes holding the cup. His emotions are so quick to flip and change these days, and unfortunately because of this, Harry is about to wear the brunt of it.

"I didn't, I just meant—"

But Liam doesn't give Harry a chance to go on. He's started something now, and all the pent-up feelings from all of this _shit_ are finally making themselves known.

"Oh, I mean it, Haz. You look brilliant for someone who's been on a bloody worldwide jaunt for the past year. I'm surprised you say I look anything like _good_ myself because I haven't felt 'good' in a long time. My looks haven't exactly been a top priority of late. Not when I spent the first half of the year worried sick, hardly sleeping because I had no idea where you were. Do you have any idea what you left behind? Did it even occur to you that we were back here with no clue as to what was going on? That most of my days were spent just waiting for someone to call and say you were dead, or the real reason your passport was being used and money being spent was because of some lookalike and you were really in a basement in some crazy stalker's house in bloody Guilford, because who'd have looked for you in _Guilford_?"

Harry at least looks somewhat sheepish as Liam puts his cup down on the floor beside him because his hands are shaking too much to hold it any more. Any desire to sit down and have a nice cuppa with his old friend has completely gone out the window.

"I sent postcards."

Liam's eyes widen. "To _Gemma_. To your sister, who never said a word, and which I would never have known about if I hadn't bloody gone and begged her for information,"

"But she was—" Harry starts with a frown. "I'm sorry, Liam. I'm so sorry."

Liam breathes, and it should make him feel better. Should quell some of the emotions that have put fire in his blood and twisted the knot inside his gut tight. But it doesn't.

"Is that it?" he asks when another awkward silence settles between them. "Is that all you've got to say?"

Harry shakes his head, rubbing his hands absently over his thighs, and he doesn't look back up.

It's not enough, and Liam's still shaking with the release of all his pent-up emotions. He just—he can't handle this at all. He thought an apology was what he wanted to hear, thought it might make everything right in a way, but it hasn't. Not a single solitary part of it.

"I think you should go. The whole reason I came up here was to get away from this, to find some way to deal with you coming back and still being you, but—"

"But you can't even look at me properly. You can't even _look_ at me, Liam," Harry breaks in, his voice flat. He stands and heads to the front door, pausing as he opens it wide. "I know I hurt all of you, I know I hurt you the most, and I know sorry isn't enough. I just thought—" He chokes on a sound that is probably supposed to be a laugh but it sounds like hurt. Muddy green eyes gaze back at Liam from under those long lashes of Harry's, and it nearly makes Liam tell him to stop. "I needed to tell you that." And he does leave then. Walks right on out the door, closes it behind him with a soft thunk.


	6. part six

**[part six]**

Liam stands there staring at the place where Harry just was and it's all he can do to just _breathe_. All those things he said and what Harry spoke of are playing in circles in his mind and he's still shaking with how angry he is. Was.

It's not fair. An apology is one thing, but it hasn't answered any of his questions. Liam still doesn't really know where he stands with Harry. Whether they can go back to being friends or, or—or anything, really. A roll of thunder and crack of lightening lights up the room. It drags Liam's eyes from glaring at the door to the front window where he can see rain is coming down in sheets. He wanders closer as another rumble of thunder shakes the house; from the look of the ponds now occupying the lawn out front, it must have been raining while he and Harry were going at it inside. It's not surprising that the once sunny morning has changed to this, the weather here can turn on the head of a pin. He's witnessed it himself over the years; it's another reason he loves being here in the cottage, how utterly cut off you can become by Mother Nature's fickle moods. He also knows the road back to town isn't that great on a clear day and is a near death trap in weather half as bad as this. It's with a sigh of relief, in a way, that he can still see Harry's car out front, windscreen wipers going ninety to the dozen but not moving anywhere.

With a sigh, Liam walks out the front door and jogs to the car. He's just told Harry to fuck off, basically, and now he's going to have to convince him to stay for his own safety. It's as if the world is conspiring against his hiding from working things out properly with Harry, and Liam doesn't know exactly how to feel about that.

He knocks on the window with one hand while the other has a tight grip on his shirt that he's pulled over his head in a vain attempt to block the rain. He knocks again as he blinks, just able to make out Harry turning to look up at him, and then the window slowly slides down.

"Come back in. You can't go anywhere in this," Liam says, trying and failing to notice the red that lines Harry's eyes, or how he scrubs at one cheek with the back of his hand, ridding it of the evidence of something that didn't come from the rain tracking down his face.

"I'll be fine. It's not far back into town."

"No," Liam says, "it isn't, but the road is near impassable in weather like this. Just come back in."

"You told me to leave."

Liam yanks open the car door. "And now I'm telling you to stay. So come inside, you great tit."

Harry gets out, and Liam wants to roll his eyes but manages not to, instead turning his back to head inside.

"Wait," Harry says, raising his voice as another crack of lightening crosses the sky and the rain gets heavier as if in response.

Liam turns. "Harry—"

"No." He puts a hand out and grabs at Liam's wrist, fingers wrapping tightly around his skin, and his touch feels warmer than it should. "Just . . . let me." Harry stops and closes his eyes for a few seconds before opening them and staring straight into Liam's. There's an emotion there that Liam can't quite identify, and then Harry's speaking and Liam can't _think_ at all.

"The postcards—Gemma was meant to give them to you earlier than that. You were meant to get them straight away."

The wind flares up and the rain actually feels sharp enough to pierce his skin with the way it's blowing in. It's making it nearly impossible to hear what Harry is saying. Or for Liam to understand what Harry is getting at. He tugs at where they're joined and tilts his head toward the house. "Inside—let's talk about it inside."

Harry shakes his head again. "No, here. The cards weren't for Gemma—well, some were, but mostly—mostly they were for you. I couldn't—I didn't want you to think I'd, like, left you with nothing, not when—" and Liam misses the next bit in another crash of thunder and a fork of lightening that must have landed too close if the way the ground literally shakes under his feet is anything to go by.

"We're going to die out here, Haz. Just fucking come inside already! I'll listen this time, I swear."

But Harry is shaking his head and stepping closer still. "You were right. You were right and it took me— _Christ_." Harry grits his teeth and scrunches his eyes, the rain streaming down his face, and Liam can't believe he's having this conversation in the middle of a storm. It's just about the cheesiest thing ever, one of those moments that only happen in movies. Not in real life. Then again, his life hasn't been anything remotely near normal since trying out for X-Factor that second time around.

"I need to ask you—"

"Ask me inside, come on." He doesn't wait for Harry's answer, just drags him along behind him into the house, where it's a lot darker than outside until flashes of white illuminate the room, putting Harry's face into relief. Liam walks further inside to the linen closet in the hall and pulls out two towels before heading back into the main room, where Harry is still standing in front of the door, dripping. Liam should shift his eyes, but he's sort of mesmerised the the sliver of skin on show as Harry pulls off his jumper, leaving it a wet mess on the floor and him standing there, soaked in a thin grey shirt. God, the thing is so tight and so drenched Liam can even make out all four of Harry's nipples.

"He-here," Liam says after swallowing hard. He throws the towel at Harry and Harry just manages to catch it. Liam wipes at his face and considers pulling his shirt off because it's not doing much except stick to his chest, but Harry is still trying to talk to him even as he dries off his hair.

"I should have—I should have started with this. I thought you might listen."

"I am, and I will. I just—I was hurt, and you surprised me, coming here," Liam says as he turns, trying the light switch only to find that of course the lines are down. He hasn't put fuel in the generator, so they're without that. At least he put in solar power for the water, so they'll have hot showers if nothing else. This line of talk from Harry has his stomach in a whole _new_ set of knots, all the anger from before being washed away by the rain and replaced with a fresh set of anxiety over what Harry wants to talk about. Because it's not the apologies any more—they're done and out of the road and this other—this other is something unknown, and Liam isn't sure if he's ready for that.

"Why don't you get in the bath first? I'll scrounge up some clothes for you," he babbles, already turning to show Harry the way when Harry stops him with a curt _no._

"I need to say this now. I need to know, did you mean it? Did you mean what you said that night, when I hit you—"

Liam cuts Harry off with a shake of his head and breathes in deep because this feels like a tipping point. Whatever is said next between them could be the be-all and end-all. "Yes, I meant it. But look, I've had all this time now and really, I'll be fine, Harry. I told you we'd be fine. I'll be fine," he finishes, looking down at the towel in his hands as he squeezes the material in his fists. But even as he says the words, deep down Liam knows he won't be fine. He hasn't been anything near fine for so long now he can't even remember what it feels like to be whole, just little fractures of hurt that either consume his thoughts or are a dull glow in the background, depending on how close Harry has been to him. Christ, why did Harry have to come find him? Why couldn't he have stayed away and just let Liam finally get over unrequited feelings?

"No, no. Just—you were right. I was never sure the wedding was the right thing for me. But it was making Louis happy and I liked making Louis happy, and after losing mum I was just . . . so lost. Then you were pulling away from me and I didn't really know what to do any more, and Louis was there and he wanted me so I said yes, and I kept saying yes to everything he wanted. I suppose that made Louis happy, too, until I said I wanted to see you the night before the wedding and Louis lost it. We had this huge argument about how he thought I was finally past using you as a security blanket and he was tired of it always being you I ran to, and I should grow up. He was so upset, shouting at me that it was him I was supposed to be marrying, him I was supposed to come to when I was sad or wanted advice, and if I couldn't see that then maybe it should be you I was with instead. And that was it, really. He left, and I spent the night talking it all over with Gemma. She pointed out a few things, too, and I realised that Lou was right."

Liam blinks, and Harry takes in a shuddering breath before continuing. "It was always about you with me. I do come to you about everything; you're the first one I think of when things go tits up or when the good times are so good I just _need_ to shout about it. I call you more than I call my own family. I never have to try and make you happy, I never have to change anything about myself because you would never ask me to. The fact is that I when I left you as much as I left Lou that day, it was because I couldn't see an easier way out of everything. I'd made a right fucking mess of it with Lou, and I was finally realising what you meant by everything you pointed out and just beginning to realise what I felt. So I took the coward's way out and buggered off. I needed time to figure it all out, and I thought being away from everything and everyone would help that." He laughs and it's kind of sad, hitting Liam in the chest as much as all of what Harry's said has already. "The thing is, the whole time I was away I haven't stopped thinking about what you said. You were right. Jesus, Liam. I don't know how I missed it. How I missed how much I love you."

Liam is just standing there because Harry is staring at him and smiling, and wow, Harry got out that whole piece without one stutter and this just—it can't be real. It can't be. He can't possibly have gone through all this heartache and attempting to stop his feelings for Harry only to have them returned after all of this. This has got to be a joke. A sick one at that, utterly cruel, even. But then Harry is reaching out and his eyes are so warm and so . . . like what Liam's known his own to look like when staring at Harry.

"I couldn't marry Lou and be in love with you, Liam. I needed to make sure that when I told you this, I really knew that I meant it. I went everywhere, all those countries and towns and people and places, searching for something that would help me make sense of everything. And then I'd find myself thinking of you at a little cafe in Cuba, or that time I was in Berlin and it was snowing, or when I was in North Queensland picking bananas and I couldn't stop laughing at the image of you when Lou would squash it into your face in those stupid games. You took over all my thoughts and that's when I knew. I knew that if I could run that far away and still have you on my mind all the time, it had to mean something. Leaving Louis and the band and my life here had to be worth something, and that something is you."

And Liam is _still_ standing there and watching the puddle form under Harry's feet, and it's all he can do to breathe, because Harry loves him. _Loves him_. It's the most surreal, amazing thing, and it's as if every neuron in his brain has surged and burst because Harry can't—he can't mean this. It can't be real.

Harry has never chosen him.

Never first.

Harry chews at his bottom lip, the skin white around where his teeth dig in, fading to pink and white again with each press. "Are you going to say something ,Li?"

Liam almost scoffs—he definitely snorts—because if he does say something it might be the wrong thing, and he doesn't want to spoil this dream moment. He must have hit his head harder than his hand earlier, because there's no way this moment is real.

Harry steps closer again, his grin faltering a little, probably because Liam hasn't spoken or even made any notion of understanding what Harry is apparently laying out there. His fingers tighten on the towel before he speaks, his green eyes dropping to the floor. "We're both kind of freezing here, and the longer you stay quiet the more of a twat I feel like, so you really should say—" and he doesn't get the rest out because somewhere between Harry dropping his gaze and looking so unsure of himself, Liam decides to believe what he's saying and he's sort of kissing Harry madly now.

He throws his arms around Harry, pulling him close. He finds it strange that Harry _still_ can feel so warm against him. Harry settles into his embrace and Liam can taste a smile upon his lips as Harry drops his towel. And then his hands are gripping at Liam's shirt and he's kissing Liam back. He's kissing Liam back, and it feels amazing and wonderful and just perfect because this is all that Liam's ever wanted.

This is everything he's never really let himself think about since Harry was on the balcony announcing that Lou was looking at rings. Or even before that, when he'd heard Lou apologising for hitting Harry and saying that he loved him. Maybe even before that, when he saw how Harry touched Lou a little more than he would Liam, or before that when Harry and Lou shared a flat. Maybe it was at the very beginning, when a boy from Wolverhampton and a boy from Cheshire met on a reality TV show, when they first shook hands and Liam didn't understand completely why his heart thumped that extra beat as soon as their skin touched.

Harry pulls back and he's just staring at Liam, and Liam is lost in the green of his eyes that reflect how wide his dimpled smile is. "Does this—does this mean—"

"Fuck, Harry, I love you, too, you git." And he leans in and kisses Harry again because—well, because he can and because Harry is here and Harry said he loves him.

Harry takes all of a few seconds to slip his hands around Liam's back, fingertips quick to slide under Liam's shirt and drag it up and up until they have to break apart to get it off. Liam raises his arms and lets out an embarrassing whine when he has to remove his lips from Harry's to pull the damn thing from his body. Harry snorts and Liam crashes their lips together again as he grips Harry's face in his hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. Harry is walking them backwards, their bodies pressed close together. Liam can feel Harry's hands come between them, working at the button on his pants and then the zip, but he stops when Liam falls backwards onto the sofa, dragging a flailing Harry with him.

They look at each other in stunned silence, broken by a clap of thunder, and it's enough to have them both laughing, Harry resting his head on Liam's bare chest. Liam strokes his hand up and down Harry's back, wishing he had of got rid of Harry's shirt when they did his; it's only a thin thing but it's still in the way of having skin on skin.

After a few minutes Harry is shifting up, his eyes so green and dark and the light from before fades along with their laughter. "Should we be doing this? Should we . . . talk more, or—"

Liam stops whatever Harry is going to say next with his lips. "Later, later. We've talked enough for now."

"Oh, good," Harry says, his teeth nipping at Liam's chin, "because I've missed you and I really, really want to have sex with you right now."

Liam smiles and it feels like it might break his face. His cheeks strain but it doesn't matter because Harry is doing the same. "You do, do you?" And Harry rolls his eyes and reaches up, kissing Liam again. There's lots more tongue this time and for a moment—just a moment—everything slows and settles, and it's just the taste of Harry on his lips and the feel of Harry as he moves above him and Harry's fingers sliding over his skin. It's everything and nothing all at once, because a feeling like this? There's no label for how Liam feels right this minute.

Then Harry is doing this delicious slow grind between them, their legs slotted together, and Liam can _feel_ Harry against his thigh. Then fingertips tease at his nipples, first one then the other, and Liam thinks that slow isn't slow enough. He wants to remember this, catalogue each and every second of it, because—well, it's _them_ , isn't it? And he's done this with Harry before and it wasn't the beginning of anything, and even though they've admitted their feelings, what's to stop this from being an ending?

Liam hates his brain right this second because as soon as that thought enters his head his fingers freeze under Harry's shirt, which he had finally worked up to just under Harry's arms, and he can't move. His lips keep following Harry's, but the need for more and more has stilled until eventually Harry notices.

"What?" Harry asks, pressing a soft kiss to Liam's cheek. His fingers run through Liam's hair, sweeping back his fringe to sit behind his ear. "What are you thinking about?"

Liam shrugs and thanks all the known deities that the lights are off and they are basically in the dark, snogging on a sofa, because he hates the idea of Harry being able to see exactly what his face looks like right now.

A flash of lightening flares long enough that Liam can see the lines of worry beginning to fill Harry's brow. "Liam, what is it?" Harry says, his voice low and filled with a sound that is something like trepidation.

"Nothing," Liam manages, because anything else right this second feels like he'll be admitting too much, saying too much.

Harry breathes out long and kind of sad. "I'm not going anywhere, Li. I won't unless you want me to."

And there it is. This is his last real opportunity to push Harry away because of how much it hurts both to be here with him and in the same breath even contemplate that he might _not_ have Harry. He can either take this moment, run with it hard and fast and create a future that is them together, or he can stop now and everything will go back to what it was. Heartache, heartbreak, and living in the shadows of what-ifs and maybes.

"Tell me again," he says, and Liam knows he's being girly, and he knows it's all the needy things he dislikes, but he needs it. _Needs_ _it._

Harry grins against his skin as his lips brush down close to Liam's ear. "I love you. I'm _in_ love with you and have been before I even knew I was,"

Liam sighs, because the words help, and then his fingers press into Harry's skin a little more and it must be enough of a go-ahead for Harry if the way his lips skip over Liam's skin, covering random spots with soft kisses and whispering "I love you's" at every stop is anything to go by. Eventually there's no "I" and there's no "you"—just love and love and love and _lovelovelove_ and it's that because Liam is whispering it, too. Then he's kissing Harry again and it's their reverent touch and shift and wordless moans that say it into flesh as it's revealed. Liam rids Harry quickly of his shirt now as it becomes necessary to say the words—mean them—into every part either of them can reach.

And Harry tastes like rain and that strange new dark scent he was covered in when Liam hugged him the day he returned, and he's eating up every sound Harry makes. Each moan he breathes in deep, pressing it inside his lungs until he's full of the want and ache of Harry. Their bodies shift and move as much as they can on this tiny two-seater until Liam is sure he's going to have a strange impression of the cushions' piping permanently ingrained on his lower back. It's lovely, it's fucking _brilliant_ , all of what they're doing here, but more—he needs more.

"Bed," he whimpers just as Harry's teeth tug at one nipple, his fingertip rubbing soft circles around the other.

"Hmm?" Harry mumbles as his tongue soothes Liam's skin, then Liam's cursing and arching up because Harry's doing _something_ with his hips that feels so fucking good.

"Bed." The word breaks in two and Liam grips his hand over the round of Harry's arse, his fingers sliding under the tight denim that is sticking to Harry like a second skin from being so wet. "Bed—I have—I have one," Liam manages to mutter as he tilts his head to the side, Harry's lips keen on exploring his birthmark and the area that surrounds it.

"Mmm," Harry responds, but he doesn't make any motion to move from where he is right now, just moves his knee a little and Liam is whining because it feels—it _feels_ so good and he's so hard and it's Harry. It's _Harry._

"Fuck, _Haz,_ I have a bed and I'd like to get out of these wet clothes so I can touch you proper or something because—stop, stop, _oh god, fuck,_ don't . . . don't stop."

Harry muffles a chuckle into Liam's neck from where he'd finished tugging on Liam's earlobe with his teeth, and just _when_ did that become such a turn-on?

"Stop, or not? We can fuck here, there's room enough." He punctuates his point with a rather fantastic twist of his hips and Liam's mind turns to mush because—wow.

"No, no, _nono_." Liam squeezes the handfuls of Harry's arse he still has in his grip and just _tugs_ him in and it's Harry cursing then. Liam grins and find's Harry's lips, eagerly licking his way in and tangling with Harry's tongue with just a little, but not enough touch until Harry is whining.

"Bed, you're right. Bed," Harry says, and he's up and dragging Liam with him as Liam attempts not to fall back down from repressed chuckles at Harry's change of plan.

They stand there for a moment, Liam regaining his balance as he lets out a short giggle at their shared circumstances. Harry turns and pulls Liam close and light flickers into the room long enough that he can see how high Harry's brow is raised at that sound coming from his mouth. Liam shrugs and shakes his head, letting his hair fall in front of his face. Harry's free hand comes up to push the fallen pieces back, tucking them behind Liam's ears, and Liam giggles again, but this time it's more breathless and hardly a sound. Harry chases Liam's smirk away with warm lips that press closed-mouth over his with more and more pressure until Liam has to open his mouth to breathe, and of course that just lets Harry's tongue in. Liam's hands are busy, though, reacquainting himself with every inch of skin that he knows now to be golden from some far-off distant land. Harry's body is packed with muscle on his slim frame; Liam can feel his strength as Harry grips his waist and walks them back until Liam cracks his hip into the corner of the side table and he swears. Harry snorts and Liam knows it's really a sound that only comes from Harry trying not to giggle himself at Liam's misfortune.

As much as he wants to keep snogging Harry, it's probably not the safest route to his bedroom walking backwards in the dark and having his mind capable of concentrating on nothing more than how Harry feels on his skin. So he turns around, much to Harry's chagrin, but then Harry wraps his body over Liam's back and nibbles at the juncture between Liam's neck and shoulder and up. Liam has trouble even shifting his feet forward once Harry realises that his hands can now slide freely under Liam's trousers and in and—oh, _fuck_ , Liam had forgot how good Harry's hand felt on him. He definitely feels Harry's muffled laughter against the nape of his neck as they round the corner. Liam is suddenly thankful the cottage only has two bedrooms and his is the first on the left.

They stumble into the room and Liam's got another thing to be grateful for at this second: his pedantic need to unpack and stow his gear into drawers and the closet upon arrival, because now there is nothing in their way. His skin tingles as Harry stops to turn them around when they're at the edge of the bed, his lips following the line of Liam's jaw till they find his lips—pressing fast and sweet and then with a flick of his tongue against the bow of Liam's top lip, and then their tongues meet again. Liam can't stop touching Harry, either, the _tick, tick, tick_ over his ribs and then finally getting Harry's shirt off his head. Liam's fingers sink into the velvet softness of Harry's short hair as Harry maps the curve of Liam's shoulders with his own. Then it's calloused fingertips running over Liam's chest as Harry's mouth skims down Liam's throat, trails of wet heat down and down and down.

"Oh, fuck!" is all Liam can get out because then Harry drops to his knees and he's pressing his blunt nails into the softer flesh of Liam's thighs. He's flicked the button on their travel down the hall and now he's making quick work of Liam's fly; a quick tug and Liam's trousers are on the floor. Harry looks up at him for a second, blinking, then it's with a smirk that he leans in and Liam has to fight with himself not to close his eyes and feel but to _watch_ instead. Harry's breath is like a furnace through the thin cotton of Liam's pants as he mouths over the hard line of Liam's dick, which is just begging for attention. Liam's so hard, so needful of any sort of attention there, that he feels himself twitch, precome jerking from the head, and it's nearly too much.

But it's not. Not too much, not enough really, and he can only guide Harry's head softly with the barest of nudges because he doesn't want to break _this._ Not now, not when his whole body feels like it's on fire and only Harry's touches can add fuel that will eventually cause this feeling to implode. Liam doesn't care if he burns completely away, because Harry is _sucking_ at the head of his covered prick now and Liam is whining a litany of barely made words. They mostly consist of " _yes, yes please"_ and " _more, more"_ and " _oh god, fuck—fuck!"_ because Harry has finally pulled the elastic down far enough that Liam's prick is free to slap against his stomach with a sticky thwack.

Not that Liam has a second to think about how embarrassing the words are that he's been saying, or how Harry's hair feels, because . . . well, Harry's on his knees and he's leaving a long, wet stripe up the underside of Liam's prick. Liam's knees truly do go weak for a moment then, the backs of his calves catching the bed as he stumbles. Harry pauses, his hands wrapped around Liam's waist as his thumbs press into the soft skin just inside Liam's hip bones, rubbing back and forth as he leaves Liam's prick for the moment and presses tender kisses to his stomach.

Liam's muscles flex as he _tries_ to breathe through this. It feels so much more intimate than when Harry had his lips around Liam's cock, and it has him shuddering. Lightning flashes and he can see Harry looking up at him with hooded eyes, but he's smiling.

"Don't stop, not on my account," Liam mumbles, his fingertips stilling in the wet mess of Harry's hair.

Dark eyelashes flutter over brilliant green eyes as Harry whispers, "Only just started." One hand leaves Liam's hip to wrap around the base of his cock as Harry swallows him down.

Liam's pretty sure he makes some sort of horrid sound at that, but his mind can't focus on that mortifying moment for long because damn if Harry isn't good at this. He's pressure and tongue in all the right places, and his hand slips and slides in all the places he can't get to. Well, can't get to yet, because when Liam is fisting the sheets in one hand and grabbing for purchase in Harry's short hair with the other, Harry pulls off him and just starts pressing light kisses to the tip of his dick.

"Harry," Liam whines, because he's needy for something entirely different than Harry's words now. Now it's touch and looks and feel and want—want most of all. Liam's hips buck as Harry strokes him from base to tip, then his tongue slips down and flirts with Liam's foreskin and slides over the hidden head. His slit getting a good workover by whatever point Harry's tongue can make. Words of _too much,_ and, _more,_ leave Liam's lips and then it's just _Harry_ and _Harry_ and _Harry_ while the man in question bobs up and down, using his tongue and the most perfect suction Liam's ever known. Liam can feel everything building like this slow, emanating heat from the base of his spine and low in his gut, but it's rising and he doesn't want to end it like this.

He tugs at Harry's hair, whispering his name, and Harry comes up and off, looking at Liam, panting, "Was it—was I doing it wrong? Did it not feel good?"

Liam shakes his head and stifles a laugh because only Harry would be concerned with just _how_ he was doing instead of focusing on the noises and complete incoherency Liam was just seconds before. "No, I just—I don't . . . ."

Harry must get it, because he stands then and makes quick work of his button-up fly and takes forever to drag the wet jeans material from his legs, where it sticks. At one point he loses his balance and hops on one foot, jeans around his knees, to one side of the room and Liam can't stop his reaction. He falls back onto the mattress, laughing hard because this—these stupid clothing failure moments—make everything between them real and less than perfect.

His laughter stops, however, when Harry suddenly reappears over him, crawling up between Liam's legs, stretching up so he's hovering right above Liam. Harry's hands are on either side of Liam's head, and when Liam's guffaws turn to soft chuckles, a flash from outside lights up his face, illuminating the frown that mars Harry's forehead. Liam reaches up, still grinning, and uses his thumb to rub over each of Harry's brows in turn, easing the tension there. It's kind of amazing that he's touching Harry like this, and everything seems to go still again as he realises he _is_ allowed to do this, to explore with even more reverence the face of the man he loves, because Harry loves him, too. Liam's breathing sounds loud in his ears as his fingertips trace the contours of Harry's face. The bridge of Harry's nose, the delicate skin under his eyes and the soft round of his cheeks.

It's his lips next and Harry's eyes flutter closed, his mouth dropping open enough that Liam can feel the moist heat of his breath on the tips of his fingers as he brushes over the slightly bruised, puffy flesh. Liam feels his dick twitch between them as Harry's tongue peeks out, swiping out and catching the tip of Liam's ring finger as he does so. Liam gasps a little and Harry rocks forward and then it's this simultaneous perfect pleasure moment because Liam's cock knocks against Harry's at the same time Harry's tongue darts out to wrap around Liam's finger, drawing him in. Liam presses the pad of his finger against the spongey warmth of Harry's tongue, having to bite at his own lips as Harry sucks him in, his hips bucking slightly. Liam feels like he could explode because Harry is doing all the things he did to Liam's dick before to his fucking _finger_ now, and with every shift of his hips the head of his dick is catching on Liam's foreskin, and—wow. Just _wow._

Liam reaches up and presses his lips to Harry's around where his finger is sliding in and out. It's awkward and messy, but there's something about the way Harry's lips feel against his, slightly stretched with Liam's now two fingers pressed in there, too, that's more erotic and more of a turn-on than it should be. Maybe it's because of the way Harry is licking all over Liam's skin, in the same way he was over Liam's cock not so many minutes ago, that has Liam wanting to slip his tongue in there, too. He does, licking his way inside, and Harry moans because this is filthy, and it has that warmth in Liam's belly that had slowed to a simmer start to rise again and heat is flooding his veins. Harry is grinding his length into the crease where Harry's hips and groin meet, occasionally brushing against where Liam is still wet and leaking precome all over his stomach, and Liam's breath catches in his throat every time.

Saliva is dripping down past his knuckles now as Harry takes his fingers in deep, tongue pressing into the soft groove where finger meets palm, and how did Liam not know that this was something that felt so good? Liam threads his fingers into Harry's hair at the back, twisting hard when it feels right and scratching softly at Harry's scalp or fingering the short hairs softly. Liam is aching now for something more than the odd brush of his dick with Harry's or Harry's stomach coming into contact on the odd occasion when Harry dips his hips too low. Liam's palm is wet when he shifts his hand away from where he's kissing Harry in earnest now, and he slips it into the small space between them until he find's Harry's dick. It takes him a second to get his hand on Harry because he's thrusting in these erratic motions, and Liam wonders if that means he's close. He finally does get a loose grip around Harry and licks at the shell of Harry's ear to ask how he's doing.

Harry chuckles, but Liam can hear how out of breath he is, can feel Harry's chest shift in and out oddly above him. "Fine, fine." Harry groans loud and long when Liam squeezes a little more firmly on the upstroke, feeling a bead of precome roll its way over his knuckles when he stops at the head.

"Changed my mind," Harry whimpers as Liam's teeth press into the lobe of Harry's ear before decorating the other man's jaw and neck with harsh sucks and nips that Liam hopes will darken and mark Harry as his. He's never been huge on the whole love bites and territory marking thing; it was something Lou always did, and then Harry when the whole Eleanor mess was ongoing way back when they first started out. But this, even here in the dark with only a few flashes of lightning and being so far away from anyone that it would matter to, Liam just doesn't care. He wants to mark Harry. Wants to mark every inch of the man so anyone who looks will know that he's not single. That he's not the man who ran away from a wedding he didn't want. That he's not the baby member of the world's "greatest boy-band". No, Liam wants to mark Harry as _his_ because he finally—is. His lips linger over the pulsating vein in Harry's neck, the skin there almost trembling with how fast Harry's heart is working as Liam roughly jerks his and Harry's cocks together as best he can. But the angle is all wrong, and with how Harry is gasping against Liam's shoulder, his teeth catching on Liam's skin every now and then, it's not enough.

Liam slides his hand down from the nape of Harry's neck over his shoulder and under his arm. He can feel the slight tiny curves over Harry's ribs. Then he squeezes tight right over his hipbone. Liam pushes, the pads of his fingers pressing in deep enough to leave more marks before he rolls them over so he's on top. Harry instinctively wraps his legs around Liam, his heels resting on Liam's thighs as he spreads himself wide. This gives their hands some added room, and Liam holds himself up and off Harry with one hand planted on the mattress by Harry's shoulder. Liam can actually thrust up into the tight space that he and Harry have formed with their hands' combined efforts to make somewhere snug for them to rock into. It's as if now they're touching, now that everything is out there and in the open, stopping for anything isn't an option. And Liam's close. He's nearly pulsing in Harry's grip, the way Harry extends his thumb sometimes so it catches on the head of Liam's dick with the barest of brushes yet it is setting him off all the same. He ruts against Harry, removing his hand so he can trail it down between Harry's legs, rolling the other man's balls in his hand, tugging slightly before a finger slides back and back and he's circling the little tight furl of skin and muscle and Harry is _whimpering_.

"Have you," Harry starts, gasping against Liam's ear. "Wanted to have you, _fuck, Li,_ have you got anything?"

Liam slows the roll of his hips for a second, trying to remember if there _is_ anything here. He's never brought anyone here, so there probably isn't. He feels his face heat as he turns his head, nearly burrowing into Harry's neck. "Lube, yeah. But . . . ." He shrugs and dips his tongue into the hollow at Harry's throat. Salt and that earthy scent that is all Harry at the moment fills his tongue and he hopes it is enough to distract Harry from asking _why_.

Harry stills. His hips quiets their movement and his hand just holds where it was. "Lube?" he asks, and Harry can hear his upturned brow in his tone of voice.

"I never—I've never brought anyone up here, Haz. It's just—a man does like to have a little bit more than spit or complimentary moisturiser to give his hand a help!"

Harry is guffawing then and abandoning all efforts of wanking them both off as he laughs, long and loud and in that barking manner that Liam's only ever known Harry to do. Maybe Liam should be embarrassed, maybe even a little saddened by the fact that it's only lube and nothing else, but he can't be. "I've got some stuff in my bag," Harry says once he calms down a little.

Liam rubs the tip of his nose against Harry's cheek. She softness is back now Harry has shaved off the scruff he's been sporting since returning to the UK. "A little presumptuous, wasn't it?"

Harry turns his head and captures Liam's lips all soft and sweet. "I like to think of it as positive forward thinking."

Liam's laughing then, but not for long because Harry arches up and he's kissing Liam once more, and it's quite hard to laugh and snog the man back so he gives in. Then Harry is pushing him up and off and nearly jumping out of the bed.

"I'll be right back!"

The power chooses to come on at that moment. Liam had the little lamp in the bedroom on earlier, so he's given quite the visual treat of a completely naked, utterly erect Harry Edward Styles standing in his best superhero pose—hands on hips, the line of his jaw sharp as his head tilts dramatically toward the door.

If Liam thought he was laughing before, it's nothing compared to the stomach-clenching guffaws he breaks into the moment Harry bolts from the room, only to reappear seconds later, a drowned wet mess but clutching a plastic-covered box with a maniacal grin when he returns.

"My hero," Liam chokes out before spluttering into giggles again merely from the imageof Harry running out completely starkers into the rain, just for a box of condoms.

"I'll have you know it's fucking arctic out there," Harry says, climbing quickly onto the bed and rubbing his cold, wet skin against Liam's. Liam makes a pathetic effort to push him off but ends up just wrapping his arms around Harry, rubbing at flesh prickled by the cold, and they kiss and giggle until Harry isn't cold any more and they're back where they were before he performed his daring rescue effort.

Liam gasps when Harry's hand returns to stroking them off, and Liam joins in, too, after a little nudge from Harry's knuckles reminds him that they were previously occupied. His mouth leaves Harry's and trails slowly down the line of Harry's neck which is thrown back with a moan as Liam adds a particular twist to his wrist. Liam is sucking at the rain-fresh skin of Harry's collarbone and Harry is mumbling something above him, words nearly unintelligible because his lips are so close together and his tongue keeps peeking out to wet them. Liam shifts up and nips at Harry's chin, finally picking out words amongst the soft moans. "Please, please, oh! Want you, want only you."

"Harry, _Harry,_ " Liam calls, and he presses his lips to Harry's closed eyes when he still hasn't answered. Harry's free hand slides up from where it had previously been leaving fingerprints in Liam's arse and fits against the curve of his side instead.

And this, this when Harry opens his eyes and Liam can see how dark they are, pupils blown wide with everything they're doing, and he realises what this moment _really_ means. "Harry," Liam says softly, trailing the tips of his fingers down the side of Harry's face.

Harry blinks and lets out a shaky breath. "Please, Li. I just want—"

"I want you, too. I—" Liam stops because he's overwhelmed by what he can now see in Harry's eyes and the way his chest is rising and falling and the beat of his heart steady at his neck. "I never thought you'd be mine."

Harry's stare fixes and it's enough to make Liam pause, because it's so serious compare to before. "Make me yours. Just yours."

He kisses Harry hard then, all teeth and passion and biting and tongues and _"fuck!"_ and _"love you"_ and " _always you, you, you."_ Liam's reaching into the drawer and pulling out the larger than probably necessary bottle, but Harry's not even making the obvious joke. He's just biting on his lip and staring at Liam with pure, unadulterated _want._

Liam blinks, taking far too many precious seconds to flip the lid off the bottle, and when he turns back Harry's got his legs thrown open wide, hand under his thigh and one finger becoming two pushing inside himself.

Liam has to reach down and hold himself tight not to come from the sight alone. He moans, though, and it's enough to have Harry's lips quirk to one side. Harry's eyes roll backwards as Liam sits back on his knees, drizzling the cool liquid onto Harry's fingers and then up over the skin that rises above them. Little whiny sounds are coming from Harry's chest as Liam uses a finger to smear around the warming liquid, rubbing it alongside Harry's fingers over the pink, flushed skin of Harry's breached hole. It doesn't take much for Harry to start shifting his fingers again, and the whine from before becomes almost guttural with how much easier it is now for him to move. And then there's a quiet, gasped " _Liam_!" as Liam can't wait any more and slides his finger in alongside Harry's two.

"Little, _ahh_ , warning next—next time?" Harry's breath is forced from his nostrils as Liam drips more lube onto their hands and between them as they both work Harry open.

"Shouldn't have started without me, Haz." Liam has to really push down at his dick now because Harry's lifting his hips the slightest bit and then Liam adds another finger so there's four, and it's _so tight._

"God, Liam. _God."_ Liam leans in and traps their arms between them as he kisses Harry hard, forcing his mouth open and arching his back enough so that their hands can move once more.

He's on the verge of coming again, having had to let his dick go to plant on the bed for balance as he fucks Harry's mouth with his tongue in the same fashion their fingers are doing much lower. He's so hot and so tight around their fingers and Liam just _wants._ He can feel how little it will take for him to get off when he does get inside Harry, so he wants to make at least this part good.

And it must be, if the way Harry is riding their fingers now and the noises he is making that keep going up and up are anything to go by. Fuck, and Liam just wants to be in there, in where it's warm and inside _Harry_ , because Harry told him to make him his.

It's the one word that keeps floating around and around Liam's brain—well, the part that isn't completely aware of cataloguing Harry noises and movements from whatever Liam is doing— _mine._ Mine, mine, _minemineminemine_ until it's just that, and then he's reaching for the box and Harry's pouting because Liam is sitting back up, removing his fingers from inside Harry so he can get the plastic off. Then there's an almost comical waterfall of surprise condoms showering them when Liam tears the box open in his urgency, and Harry turns his head into the pillow but Liam can still _see_ his chest shaking and he flicks Harry's nipple just because he can. Liam somehow manages to get a packet open and then he's rolling it on and there's more lube and Harry's not laughing any more.

Harry's staring at him again and his poor bruised bottom lip is nearly quivering with each and every one of Harry's harsh breaths as Liam lines himself up. He's got a finger inside Harry again, just sliding around the ring of muscle that is loose, but not too much, for what lies ahead. He flicks his eyes up toward Harry, shaking his head to push his hair off his sweaty brow, and Harry licks his lips, shifting his hips upward. "Liam."

And it's all Liam needs to hear.

Then he's holding his dick a little tighter than before as he rests the other hand on Harry's hip, close to where Harry's hands are spreading himself apart. He goes slow because he may not have done this in a while, but he knows enough to realise you don't just fuck into someone like this without giving it a bit of time and effort and a whole lot of preparation. Harry is quiet—but then again, so is Liam as he presses in and in until the pressure eases slightly and he's sliding home and it's so _good._ He can't even contemplate a shift of his hips or anything the moment he's there, because Harry just lets out this long, slow breath and his hand is fluttering at one side until he finds where Liam's is on Harry's hip. Then he's grasping, fingers flexing, and Liam figures it out and joins their fingers together and Harry smiles and it's enough to make Liam want to move.

Slow and steady doesn't last too long because Harry is _vocal_ and Liam needs _more._ He wants to hear that sharp intake of breath when he fucks just in the right spot—all deep and barely pulling out before pressing in again. He needs to watch the rise of Harry's chest as his back bows and there is so much of Harry's collarbones and shoulders on display. There's this buzz inside Liam's entire being that's mostly sat at the base of his spine during all of this tonight, but now that he is where he is, it's spreading throughout his limbs as Harry's free hand clutches at Liam's arse. Liam ends up pressing the other hand into the bed when he moves forward, pulling Harry's hips up with him. The angle is good here, somehow manoeuvring Harry's arse onto Liam's thighs, and he moves their joined hands to the mattress.

Harry's brow is dotted with sweat and his hair is sticking to it in a way that Liam knows, because his hair was short like Harry's for a long time. Harry whines as Liam shifts to press his lips there. Harry wraps his legs higher around Liam's torso until he's nearly bent in half and Liam has to slow down for a minute because this is just so _much._ Harry is kissing him next, his cheek and chin for starters, but then Liam must hit _that_ place inside Harry, if his cursing of Liam's name and rocking his body up and moaning is anything to go by. It's the difference in the sound this time that has Liam really fucking Harry then. He works out where that place is inside that causes Harry's change in tone and makes a pointed effort to get to it again. When he does, Harry squeezes him with his legs and Liam doesn't ever want to let go. He wants to be here in this space forever.

It's all too much and not enough and his body is nearly vibrating with how amazing it all feels and the buzzing is nearly audible now as Harry squeezes their hands tight. Then Harry is reaching up and up with his face just tilting towards Liam's, a breathless plea for Liam to meet him somewhere in between, and Liam recognises it and does. Their kiss isn't even a proper kiss any more, it's mostly just their lips brushing in awkward touches or their tongues somehow matching up, and it's not enough.

"Slow," Harry whispers—well, mouths really, because he's got his fingers in a firm grasp, entangled in the longer hair at Liam's neck and it's like he doesn't want to let Liam go.

Liam blinks and leans back into Harry's touch where he's just rubbing at this short piece right at the base of Liam's neck. He likes the way Harry just understands, pushing their faces together again. It's different from before, because now Harry is just letting their foreheads press together softly, and he's breathing out and Liam's breathing him in and maybe it's the same for Harry, too, because it's all they do. They breathe and they stare into each other's eyes and Liam just grinds into Harry, barely moving at all, and he can feel Harry so hard and sticky and wet between them and he wonders if Harry can come like this. The sounds Harry is making and the way his arms are just beginning to shake, Liam can feel Harry's hips chase his when he shifts back the tiniest amount. Maybe Harry doesn't want it to end, either. But Liam's so close, so fucking close, and the buzzing is in his ears now, vibrating under the surface of his skin, and surely Harry can feel it.

Then Harry is blinking fast, his mouth dropping open and the tight heat Liam is surrounded in gets tighter still. Then Harry is choking out Liam's name and it's dry and raspy as Liam feels the space between them become hot and sticky as Harry comes and comes and then he's pulling Liam along with him. Liam thrusts properly now, his eyes still completely on Harry. Harry whose face is flushed and glowing from sweat or the rain or whatever, but it's all Liam can see. Harry's eyes are just so so green and he looks blissed out, wrung out, and the tiny smile that tries to fit on his lax lips causes one of his dimples to make a slight appearance and that is it. It's all over. He can't even say Harry's name, can't even make a sound as his whole body is just consumed by _Harry._ It's Harry he can taste as he sucks in air and it's Harry he can feel as he collapses on top of him and it's Harry he can hear whispering _"love and love you"_ and Liam's name over and over again.

Minutes, seconds later, he lifts his head and leans into Harry's touch where he's running his fingers through Liam's hair and it feel _so_ tender, so loving that Liam can't help but lean into it. Harry's blunt nails scratching against his scalp slowly bring Liam back to the surface, and Liam just—he can't even process what has just occurred.

"You're thinking," Harry says, and Liam feels his cheeks heat, which is stupid really given that he's still _inside_ Harry and he can feel Harry's come sticky where his belly is pressed against Harry's.

"Am not," he answers rather childishly, but he's just fucked—no, made love to the man he's been in some sort of deep feelings with for nearly ten years now; he's allowed a tiny amount of immaturity.

Harry smiles and this time it's complete with teeth so white and dimples so deep that Liam pokes the tip of his tongue into one before Harry twists his head away.

"You're blushing!"

"I am not!" Liam's brows rise right up into his fringe and he might lean forward a little to let it flop down to hide his eyes a little as he goes to sit up, one hand already making its way between them so he can pull out.

Harry just wraps his legs tighter around Liam's back as he pushes the strands from Liam's face and squeezes their still-joined hands together. "I feel it too, you know. I feel it." And he says it so seriously, in that deep, gravelly voice that Liam had only really ever imagined hearing in such close proximity as this that it really hits him.

Harry does get it. He might have taken far longer to get where Liam's been for so long now it feels like before Harry there was nothing, no emotion even close to what he has now, but Liam is certain just by looking into Harry's eyes that he's _there_ now. So Liam just kisses Harry and Harry kisses him back, and it doesn't matter that Liam has to pull out eventually because he's getting soft and there's a mess between them that doesn't feel at all good once it's congealing on their skin. It doesn't matter after, when Harry laughs at Liam doing his own version of a nudie run to the bathroom in the cold air, cupping his bits like Harry hadn't seen them before, to get a flannel to clean them both off with. It doesn't matter when Liam returns that Harry demands that Liam do his best Batman pose before he lets him back in the bed. It doesn't matter that when Liam is _finally_ allowed back in (to his own bed, mind), he and Harry find this weird, legs and arms entangled way to sleep on their sides because neither wants to let the other go and they aren't even talking—just smiling and kissing and breathing, because there's nowhere else they'd rather be.

The last thing he remembers hearing is Harry's soft sighs, and it's not even a word, it's not anything, really—but it's probably the best sound Liam has ever heard. **  
**


	7. epilogue

**[epilogue]**

When he wakes up the next morning, it's to eyes blinking in stark white light because he forgot to close the damn curtains the night before. He reaches over to the pillow beside him, smashing it over his face, and curses the sun and then stops because—he's suddenly surrounded by a familiar scent and—Harry.

Harry was here. Harry was in his house and in his face and then he was _in_ Harry and Harry was in his bed and Harry . . .

. . . Harry isn't now.

Liam hates that his stomach sinks when he cracks his eyes open and shifts the pillow up and off his head enough so he can check and see that, yes, Harry isn't there. In a moment he's transported back to a time years and years before and an uncomfortable sofa and flaky come still dried on his stomach. He hates the way his chest _aches_ and it _hurts_ because Harry isn't beside him, when Liam is completely certain he fell asleep with the man in the late of the night before. He licks his lips, closes his eyes, and listens, because Harry could be _anywhere_ within the house. He could be taking a piss, for all Liam's quick-to-jump-to-conclusions mind is running a million different possibilities of why Harry isn't snuggled up to him any more. He breathes as quietly as possible and wishes his stupid heart would stop beating for a moment so he could _hear_ , and finally the sounds start filtering in.

Waves crashing against the cliff that is closer to this room than any other in the house. It's the sound that usually lulls him to sleep in the night. Well, on nights when he isn't shagging a man he's had the longest crush on. Then there are the birds and more nature, because it is _so_ quiet out here—why he bought the cottage in the first place, really. Then it's a voice.

And another.

And Liam doesn't want to get out of bed any more.

There's a softness to it, like they're trying to be quiet, and that kind of hurts and makes Liam slide out of bed. He finds some pants to put on and creeps down the hall. There's a short laugh and then another voice chimes in with "See you when you get home."

And he shouldn't be jealous that it's Zayn Harry is talking to, idiot leaving his phone on speaker as he plates up what looks like a full English—eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, beans, and even some hashbrowns that Liam isn't even sure he bought the day before. He shouldn't find it so completely fucking shattering when Harry looks up, his face bright with the smile that fills it on meeting Liam's stare when he says in return, "Nah, mate, I'm already there."

That breakfast is not the last between them that gets cold. It's not the only time Harry refers to Liam as home, and it's not the last time he wrecks Liam with a look alone. There's the good that's _so_ good, like when they buy their first house together and fuck on every surface imaginable. There's the bad that nearly breaks them when the doctor discovers these nodule things on Liam's vocal chords. There are weeks when they think Liam will never talk again and he pushes Harry away so hard that it ends in a fight where Liam's first words are "fucking tosser" and ends in tears and kisses, and it only makes them stronger. There's Zayn's quickie wedding in Vegas to that popstar that _everyone_ thinks will end in a mess, but they've got three kids now and are working on a fourth. There's Niall and his string of women and it doesn't matter because he's still Nialler—all smiles and sunshine and stupidity on tour. Then there's Louis, who can't look Liam in the eye for such a long time—longer than Liam avoids looking at him, even. Then there's the three a.m. wake-up and Harry asleep upstairs and "He's so happy with you, much more so than he was with me," and shared tears shed over teacups that Louis later denies—but still winks at Liam about all the same.

It's not perfect—never perfect—but when Harry takes his hand or even looks at him from across the room and says the word "home"—that's more of a declaration of love than Liam could ever ask for.

**-fin-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (runs far, far away) thanks for reading!


End file.
